


here there be monsters and your home

by weneedtotalkaboutsherlock (Paradoxe1914)



Series: The Moon and the Sea [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Awkward Sexual Situations, First Kiss, First Time, Human!Mer!Lock, Internalized Homophobia, Interspecies Awkwardness, Interspecies Sex, It gets complicatd, Lighthouse keeper John, M/M, Magical Realism, Merman Sherlock, Oh there's a tag for that!, like really awkward, mer!lock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-06
Updated: 2019-03-04
Packaged: 2019-08-19 13:29:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 65,806
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16535456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradoxe1914/pseuds/weneedtotalkaboutsherlock
Summary: The end of the world is a strange place to be, for a lonely tower.It is certainly a strange place to be for a very lonely man, who, on certain nights, dreams of a fish on the shore.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> When I was three or four years old, my babysitter used to read to me from a Polish fairytales' book. In that book, there was a story that I don't remember much about, but it came with a picture that fascinated me: it depicted a beautiful mermaid on the beach, caught by fishermen who hunted her kind. I remember being incredibly sad that I couldn't do anything to help her, and if I remember correctly, that story did not have a happy ending. I'm making things right for my three years old self by giving another merperson the happy ending they deserve.
> 
> Be prepared for angst, fluff, and hopefully, a bit of humor too. I've taken inspiration here and there, from Andersen's original fairy tale, to The Shape of Water, with a bit of Howl's Moving Castle and Stephen King if you look closely, and my own interpretation of merfolk's anatomy, biology, diversity and cultures. 
> 
> This fic is complete, with 13 chapters and is about 60k long. I will be updating on Monday and Friday, every week, although the schedule might change depending on how busy I am. 
> 
> Biggest thanks to my wonderful beta [Arcwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin) \-- check out her amazing fics!
> 
> Enjoy!

_One changing-color silhouette_

_Has guessed the shores you left behind;_

_And knows the course, the sun-road down,_

_One last anchor in Dingle Bay;_

_Then out to the edge of the world:_

_Here There Be Monsters, and your home_

\- Alfred Corn

 

 

 

At the end of the world, there is a tower.

White, strong and wide, not like the ones painted in watercolours in a fairy tales' book. It's made to stand against the sea, against the storm and the waves knocking at its door.

A rocky path leads to it, before it goes up the hill where an old muddy-red truck is parked, and meets the road a few kilometres away.

Inside, a single wide room on the first floor, bearing subtle traces of life: a small kitchen in one corner, a bed tucked against the cold stone wall, bookshelves, paper and pens spread over a tiny desk, and two armchairs in front of a dead fireplace.

There is a basement, full of carton boxes, tolls and gear, and a second floor, with walls made of glass. At the centre of it, a light, to guide the lost at sea. There aren't many to come this way these days, preferring nicer weather and kinder routes where small deadly islands don't cut through the water and the boats' hulls.

Yet sometimes, sometimes, the light catches on two glimmering dots far away among the waves. It's gone in an instant, moving too quickly for anyone to guess that it is not the simple reflection of the stars on the water.

So, just like that, life continues around the very last shore of dear old Scotland, in an unwavering routine dictated by the moods of the sky and the sea.

The end of the world is a strange place to be, for a lonely tower.

It is certainly a strange place to be for a very lonely man, who, on certain nights, dreams of a fish on the shore.

 

***

 

The next wave leaves a body on the beach.

John sees it from afar, the pale silhouette of a human body against the soft grey sand. A man sleeping on the beach, his ankles licked by the constant flux of the shallow water.

He drops his shopping bags on the muddy path as he runs down the slippery stones towards the shore, cursing his bad leg under his breath.

"Hey! You!" he yells towards the man, yet his desperate call is lost to the wind.

He drops on his knees the moment he reaches the body, his fingertips dimpling the soft skin under the man's jaw. No pulse. The body is not rigid nor cold, and so John links his fingers together and places them over the man's chest, remembering like a second nature the first ever manoeuvre he's been taught so long ago during his training. He starts to pump to the rhythm of an old sea shanty he has half-forgotten the lyrics to.

"Come on," he whispers, "don't die on me like that."

When he gets to thirty, he stops, lifts the man's chin, breathes in, and without a second thought, puts his mouth over the man's soft lips and pushes the air through. The world stops turning. The wind dies down.

Salt on his lips.

For a moment, John feels more calm than he has in months, in years. Calmer than when he's set his foot on that plane going to Afghanistan. Calmer than during that night when the bonfire was blurring the contours of Billy's laughing face. The man tastes like the sea. Like the promise of a storm after days of drinking. Like the first time he accidentally swallowed a cup of seawater on his first trip to the beach.

The wind whips his coat against the small of his back, and the world starts turning again. John focuses on the man's chest. One to thirty. Steady rhythm. Check pulse (none). Lift chin. Breathe in. Lean down. Push. An instinctual choreography ingrained in his muscles.

John breathes for the man for a second time when he feels the body under him coming back to life with a shudder. He gently turns the man's face on the side, and so when he reels, his upper body taken with coughs and spasms, he doesn't choke on the water and his own saliva. He turns his head, swallowing the air around him, his pale eyes the colour of kinder seas.

" _'Syou_ ," the man manages to mumble, his voice deep and rasp.

John does not understand what he means by that, but before he can ask him, the pair of blue eyes shut close again, head lulling against his shoulder, his body taken by sheer exhaustion. It takes John a minute to stop staring at the body, and start thinking again.

He takes off his coat and wraps it around the man's chest, feeling the wind digging through his bones now that he doesn't have that additional layer to protect him. He gets on his knees, pulling the man in his arms until he has a good grip on him, and stands up. He will have to carry him all the way to the lighthouse, which isn't exactly a problem: the man is terribly thin, and John is used to hauling heavy objects around. It's harder in the sand, as he feels his feet digging in it under both of their weight. His thigh trembles as his feet are trying to find purchase on the ground. The hardened skin of his scar there tugs and sends sparks of pain down his leg. He tries to ignore it. He really can't afford stumbling and falling on the slippery rocks, not right now. He grips the body harder, and carefully continues his path towards the lighthouse.

The distant thunder rumbles somewhere above his head. The wind is rising.

He bangs the door open with his foot, groceries forgotten down the path, and sighs of relief at the sight of the familiar round room. Grunting from the effort, John set the sleeping man on his bed, and fetches a towel and his medical kit from the bathroom. He'll light up the fire in a moment, to get the room warmer, but right now he needs to make sure that the man is all right. Taking a look at his watch, he lets his finger roam over the man's neck until he finds his pulse. Counts, just to be sure.

"That seems good," he mumbles to himself, before he kneels down onto the floor, drying the man off with the towel.

He's not comatose like he was before, it looks like he's sleeping now, breathing steadily, occasionally moving when John passes the towel over his limbs, as if he's bothering him. There are a few bruises on his neck, shoulder and side — he must have fallen off a boat, John thinks, when he was greeted with the storm that is now raging over the water at the horizon. Are there any more people, out there, lost at sea? He probably wasn't alone on that boat, but John is sure that he saw nobody else down on the shore. That's one lucky sod.

After making sure that the man is stable, he tugs the covers over him, and goes to light a fire. He tries to radio the coastal guard, but the signal is too weak to contact them. He gives up after a few minutes, thinking that the man can stay with him until he feels better, and not before the storm is over. It should not last long, he thinks. The last time he had a guest here was Sarah, and he nearly had a mental breakdown from living with someone twenty-four hours a day. He'll be just fine, he tries to convince himself, with a smile on his face.

He sighs, stealing a look at the stranger in his bed. His cheeks are getting rosy from the warmness that starts to spread in the room, and his hair is slowly drying off, revealing a more brownish colour, as it spikes up in a puffy cloud of messy curls.

There's something about him, something that John finds intricately _beautiful_.

He clears his throat. That's enough of that, he thinks.

Outside, the thunder finally splits the sky in two.

 

***

 

John puts down his book a little bit after midnight. He hasn't done any work tonight, apart from bringing the groceries in and cooking dinner. The man in his bed is still sleeping, breathing regularly, moving a bit from time to time. John doesn't mind him, his thoughts lost somewhere between the flames dancing in the fireplace.

He loves storms. They're absolute hell to live through, especially like when his basement got flooded a few months ago, but he enjoys the feeling of reclusion. Of nature being more powerful than anything. His life could be taken at any moment by a strong burst of wind, or an enormous wave, ageless stone finally giving under the pressure and taking the tower with it. There is nothing he would be able to do to save his life. Strangely, there is something reassuring in knowing that he doesn't have any control over what might happen to him.

Nobody would know, anyway. Or care.

He's thirty-six, yet he feels like an old man. A broken soldier, a useless doctor, a dangerous man when his mind decides to bring him back to the Afghan dunes and active war zones. The lighthouse was the only solution, after a few months back in London where he could not sleep, haunted with the thought that he would kill the first passerby on impulse. It's only when he met Mike at Regent's that he remembered about that damned night before his first leave when they had partied at the confines of northern Scotland, that he decided to leave the city in favour of the wildest corner of the world. It had been the last time he had felt truly free, that night on the beach, seeing Bill's and Sam's faces over the bonfire, a beer bottle in hand. If he had needed something, it was to feel free again, with the sea as his only friend, therapist and confident.

He puts the book down on the arm of the chair, and slips down to the floor to pull out the mattress from under his bed. As he does so, he shifts the carton box and remembers stumbling  upon it yesterday evening. It’s the one with the few belongings he actually cares about: his dog tags, a few family pictures, a toy soldier he played with as a kid, and a pendant he had made of a bit of blue rock he had found on the beach near here, before his leave. Or is it a shiny shell? He tried it on, yesterday, just for fun, thinking about the years he used to wear it around his neck with his dog tags. He should have thrown it all out, now that he does not need it, but pure sentimentality refrained him from doing so.

He replaces the box under his bed, careful as to not wake the man sleeping in it.

It's not the first time he has let someone in here, but Sarah had been an exception at the time, and he swore to himself that he would not do something like that again. Saving that man's life could very well doom him too, if John's brain decides to act up tonight. Well, at least his gun is safely tucked under a brick in the wall upstairs, and he seldom dreams during storm nights. It's when the water is calm that the insomnia settles.

John wakes up a few hours later, the duvet up to his nose, and notices how comfortably warm it is in the half-lit room. He turns on his side with a quiet yawn, facing the wall, when his eyes catch in the mirror in front of him, the one he never got around hanging on the wall. He understands why his sleep has been disturbed: the man, behind him, has woken up.

He thinks about turning on his other side in order to introduce himself or explain to him why he's here, and ask if he's all right. He stops himself before he can make his presence known, as the man seems to be just fine. He's sitting up on the bed, blankets thrown back, his hands roaming over his chest and arms. Probably checking himself for any injuries, although we won't find anything worse than a few bruises. He watches as the man dips his hands lower, his legs falling open, giving him a good view of what he's stroking. John jerks back, the duvet rusting around him, but the man doesn't seem to register that he's being watched. John wants to close his eyes, to look away from that private moment, but his eyes are fixed on the reflection. It's a relief to see that the man lets go of himself only after a few seconds, hands going lower, and John imagines the man's long fingers cupping his balls, skimming over his arsehole.

 _God, take a grip on yourself. You're not gay. Not interested in men._ Yet the man in front of him… well, John has seen his lot of objectively good-looking blokes in different clubs and in the army, but _he_ is something else entirely.

He seems to be inspecting his legs, now, hands going over his muscles, then grabbing at his ankle and lifting it in order to inspect the underside of his foot, his toes. It takes him a few more minutes to complete the full visual analysis, but when he's done, he tugs the covers on himself and leans back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

John closes his eyes, and tries to go back to sleep.

 

***

 

When John wakes up for the second time, the man is asleep again. A dull light emanates from the small window near the staircase: it's morning, but it still looks like it's pouring outside, the wind blowing high notes against the walls of the lighthouse. He gets up, get dressed and checks the contents of the fridge: there should be enough food for two until the storm passes, and if not, he'll take some of the frozen fish he's been stocking downstairs. That sounds like a plan, he tells himself: feed the man, wait until the storm passes, return him to the rest of his crew and family. Then he'll have his well-earned peace again.

The kettle clicks, indicating that the water is ready. In his back, the blankets rustle: the man is awake, turned on his side, wrapped in the duvet as if trying to hide in it.

"Oh, hey," John says, but the man doesn't answer. Doesn't move. Doesn't even look at him. John frowns, rubbing at the back of his neck, unsure how to proceed. Is he in shock? Has he hit his head? Is he more seriously injured than John originally thought so?

He walks towards the bed. "My name's John Watson, I've found you yesterday on the beach," he says, speaking slowly and in a well-practised reassuring tone. "You're on the coast of the very north of Scotland, if you've been wondering. Oh, and I'm also a doctor, so I had a quick look but it looks like you're fine. You were quite lucky."

He leans in a centimetre before the man lunges at him, hands extended and going for John's neck. He quickly deflects the attack by turning on himself, as he takes one of the man's wrist and twists his arm, putting his other hand above his elbow. He would be able to break his arm in less than a second, in that position, but before he can even think about what to do next, the man's knees go weak and he stumbles on the mattress on the ground.

John follows him, taking the opportunity to lean down and pin the man's chest to the mattress, still holding his wrists. He's fighting back, trying to pull his hands away, to kick John in his stomach with his knees. He's surprisingly strong for someone who nearly drowned the day before, but no match to John's fighting skills.

"Calm down, calm down, I won't hurt you. I'm only here to help. Help? Er— _m'ayday_?" John tries, in approximate French.

That seems to do the trick, the man's muscles relaxing a bit. "John Watson?"

"Yes, that's me," John smiles. "What's your name?"

"Sherlock."

Ah, so he does understand English. "Sherlock, that's a nice name," he says, going for a bit of doctorly distraction and praise at the same time. It certainly is a _strange_ one. "Where are you from?"

He lets go of Sherlock's wrists, sure that he won't be attacked again, and sits back on his heels.

"Not here," Sherlock says. "You wouldn't know it. It's an island."

He can speak English too, that's good. Will make this whole thing definitely easier, though John doesn't quite catch where his accent is from. He doesn't seem to have one, but he sounds like someone who has learned English from a British teacher, the accent coming on and off here and there. If John isn't mistaken, there's a bit of Scottish in there too.

"All right," he says, as Sherlock sits up, looking around the room, while John tries not to concentrate too hard on the fact that the man is still naked. "You'll be able to make a call home once the storm passes. Until then, it's only you and me, I'm afraid."

"What day are we?"

"June 17th. As I've said, we're near Dunnet Head, Scotland."

"You don't sound… Scottish," Sherlock says, doubtful, as if John is about to jump on him behind the lure of a fake accent.

"That's because I'm not? I'm English. I just… work here."

Sherlock hums, and he seems to be already thinking about something else. "When is the next moon?"

John frowns, but gets up and checks the calendar for that particular detail. "The next _full_ moon? July 13th."

Sherlock lets out a breath, his head dropping a bit, although John can see the hint of a smile. He looks relieved, but doesn't say why.

"Do you want tea?" he offers him. "Or anything to eat, really, you must be starving."

He's being a lousy host, that's for sure. He goes to the kitchen, and Sherlock follows, apparently not at all bothered by the fact that he is still naked. "Not really hungry, no."

"Drink a cuppa, at least, and let me— grab that sheet for you," John says, taking the white sheet from the bed and wrapping it around Sherlock's shoulders just as he is about to sit down. "My clothes wouldn't fit you, but the bloke who lived here before had the same height. He left a few boxes of his stuff downstairs, I'll go check that. Milk, sugar?" he asks, pouring the hot water into a mug, before adding the tea.

"N— no."

"All right, here you go," he says, getting the tea bag out of the cup.

He places it on the table, in front of Sherlock, who wraps his hands around it, and lifts it to his mouth. John turns his back on him, to prepare his own cup, while Sherlock takes a first sip.

Sluuuuuu _uurp_.

"What the fuck?" John mouths to himself, his eyebrows popping up.

_Sluuuuuuuuuuuurp._

Well, that's a bit rude. He stifles a laugh, his fist pressed to his mouth. "Be right back," he says as he walks away towards the staircase. Let's check those boxes right now.

The stairs creak under his feet, and even though it's distant, he hears it nonetheless.

_Sluuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuurp._

He stumbles down the last few steps, and presses his back against the nearest wall, crumpling with laughter. He really shouldn't — he knows he shouldn't make fun of this, well, this _lunatic_. For all his looks, the man could have been from another planet, asking about full moons and accents. When will his ship come back for him? John asks himself, his sides hurting as he tries not to make any sound. Or maybe the man truly hit his head when he fell from his boat, that would explain a lot, and it's not entirely reassuring. And what about that name, Sherlock? What kind of language is it from?

John clears his throat, tears prickling at the side of his eyes. He sniffs, passing his thumb at the corner of his eyes, and goes to check the boxes before his disappearance becomes too suspicious. He selects a few pieces of clothing he thinks will suit the man— _Sherlock_ , before he returns upstairs.

Sherlock is still sitting at the table, mug between his hands, one foot on the chair. He jumps a bit when John steps on the floor again, like a little animal constantly on alert for predators.

"Here," he says, laying out the clothes on the second kitchen chair. "I think this will fit you."

Sherlock stays silent, not even a thank you, only another  _sluuuurp._  His foot taps twice on the chair, in what John guesses to be a nervous tic.

Right. John sits down, a few questions already forming in his head. "So, you said you're from an island. Is it far away?"

 _Slurp._ "Quite." _Slurp._

"Okay, and— do you have any family to contact?"

 _Slurp_. "No, not really." _Slurp_.

Okay, this is becoming annoying. "What do you do in life?"

 _Slurp._  "I am a… marine biologist." _Slurp_.

John's eyebrows pop up. That could explain… everything. Not demented, only a scientist. Some scientists are proper lunatics, aren't they? "So you were doing research, on that boat? How many were you?" He is not sure if he wants to press the issue too much, since it's probably that Sherlock's colleagues did not make it.

 _Slurp_. "Yes, I was. And I was alone. I— Oh." A silence, and John wonders what's wrong. Sherlock's eyes stare at the bottom of his mug, and John understands.

Jesus, no wonder why he works alone. "More tea?" John asks, mentally flagellating himself for even suggesting that.

"Oh, yes!" Sherlock exclaims, eyes suddenly glowing. The sheet is slowly starting to slip from his shoulders.

John stands up, replenishes Sherlock's cup of tea and finishes making the one he had started earlier for himself. He sits down, handing Sherlock's mug, and watches in annoyance as the man brings it to his lips. _Sluuuuurp_. John closes his eyes, his hand tensing up around his own mug. He breathes in. And out. In, and out. He lifts his own cup, and swallows without noise, in the hope that Sherlock will follow his lead. Sherlock tucks the cup again between his ridiculously large hands, and starts sipping at his tea with visible efforts not to make too much noise, even though the occasion slurp slips from time to time.

After a while, John asks, "What were you working on?" This man has no family, no colleagues, comes from an unknown place and John doesn't quite know how to make conversation with him.

"You wouldn't know it."

"How come?" John says, a bit insulted.

"It's a type of polyp that lives at the bottom of the ocean. I'm currently the only human aware of its existence." Sherlock straightens his back, the sheet completely slipping off his shoulders and falling on his lap, and John notices how proud he looks of himself. Definitely an improvement over the nervous mess he was a few minutes ago.

"If you say so." An uncomfortable silence grows again between them, John's brain overheating itself while searching for something to say. "Do you… remember what happened? When you fell off the boat?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "No, I don't remember anything. Just… waking up here."

John hums, returning to his tea. Tomorrow, when the storm has passed, he will drive him to the village and let him use the landline at the clinic. From there, Sherlock will be able to explain his situation to the coastal guard, and will be taken back to the place where he's from. The lighthouse will regain its blessed quietness, without any annoying slurping sounds.

Sherlock is now looking at the kettle, as if the intensity of his stare will be able to make it work on its own. There's something quite… well, _charming_ , about him, John notices. The tea seems to be doing him good too, bringing colour back to his stupidly defined cheekbones, and his hair is still a fuzzy halo around his head. He looks young, maybe something like in his early thirties. No wonder he had trouble steering a boat, alone at sea and in the full storm if he doesn't have much sailing experience.

Sherlock winces on his chair. "John Watson?"

"Mmh?"

"Where do you shit?"

John chokes on his tea, and it nearly comes out of his nostrils. "Pardon me?"

"Where do you—"

"No, I heard the first time, it's just that—" he shakes his head, letting it go. It's clear that Sherlock is not a native speaker and does not understand certain… nuances of the language. Nothing to be dramatic about. He's been in the army, for God's sake, he's heard plenty of fouler language. No need to be so English about it.

"Bathroom's right there," he says, pointing at the door left of the kitchen. "In fact, take the clothes with you and take a shower. Make yourself at home."

"Okay." Sherlock stands up and grabs the clothing left on the chair, leaving John on his own.

He takes his time to wash the cups as he hears Sherlock shuffling around in the bathroom. He checks the fridge once again, settling for a tuna sandwich for lunch, and a salad on the side. He'll ask Sherlock what he wants to eat once he is done, and puts the kettle on, thinking that Sherlock will probably want more tea.

_BANG!_

"What the—" John jumps at the sound, and walks to the bathroom door. Is Sherlock destroying the plumbery or what? It did sound like the toilet lid falling on the seat. "Everything all right in there?"

"John Watson… How do you reach the water?"

He frowns, trying to understand. Is Sherlock currently using the toilet? Why would he want to… _reach_ the water?

"Can I come in?" he asks in a sigh, and Sherlock answers with a positive grunt.

His warning is useless, since Sherlock is standing stark naked in front of the toilet. Does his culture really not use toilets? Was he raised in the jungle, or something like that? Maybe there weren't any toilets of that kind on his boat, or maybe he truly hit his head, causing some long-term memory loss?

"Okay, so, you just… sit on it," John starts explaining. He won't bother teaching him how to do it standing up, unless he wants half of his floor covered with piss. "You do your stuff, once you're done, you wipe…" (God, is he really explaining this to a grown man?) "and then you push the flush— here."

Sherlock nods, and taps twice on the floor with his foot. The man seems to be full of nervous tics. Jesus. John goes over to the shower, knowing that it will also need a few explanations.

"To turn it on you turn the handle like that, and then back again to turn it off. Don't forget to close the curtain behind you if you don't want to soak the bathroom. You've got a bar of soap here to clean your skin with, and there's shampoo too, for your hair. Do you need anything else?"

Sherlock shakes his head, and ushers John out of the bathroom.

In the end, John settles for reading a book in front of the fire, after adding a few logs to it. Outside, the storm is still raging. With a shiver, he thinks about when he'll have to get upstairs later, for his daily checkup of the lamp.

After half-an-hour, Sherlock finally emerges from the bathroom, clean without any other disturbance. He's wearing a pair of jeans and comfy socks, fingers scratching at the collar of a red-wine wool jumper.

They eat the tuna sandwiches in companionable silence, unfortunately disturbed by another round of tea. John tries to think of an activity to suggest to Sherlock. He usually goes around his day by working either downstairs or upstairs, since there is something always waiting to be fixed. When work is done, he listens to the radio, finishes a book he's been reading, or tries to write down a few notes on that novel he's been outlining for months.

For now, he needs to sort a few boxes downstairs, salt and freeze the fish he's got at Anderson's yesterday, and check if he's got enough white paint to redo the walls of the basement.

"I'll be working a bit, now," he says to his guest. "You should rest, though, the bed's yours if you want to nap."

Sherlock nods, but goes for the black armchair in front of the fireplace instead of the bed. He sits down, tugging his knees to his chest and puts his chin on top.

"There's tea in the cupboard if you want to make some more," he adds.

He catches the flash of a smile on Sherlock's face, and chuckles as he makes his way downstairs.

 

***

 

He's done with the fish a few hours later, and has decided that there should be enough white paint for a first layer. He dispatches the few boxes around the room to free all the walls, thinking that he'll be able to start when the storm passes. The air will be less humid by then.

He climbs up the stairs again, sweaty, tired and hungry for dinner, his damned leg paining him. It's been worse since he had to carry Sherlock around yesterday. Why did he ever think that living in a place that is made of stairs was ever a good idea? He grunts, fist clenching on his thigh as he throws a towel on his shoulder. He needs a good shower, and hopes that the boiler had the time to make enough hot water for a few minutes of warm bliss since Sherlock took his half-hour shower earlier today. Only then he notices that he's alone.

"Sherlock?"

No answer. He's not in bed, nor in the bathroom. God, has he tried going outside? No: John would have heard the door open and close, and no one in their right mind would have tried to go outside in that kind of storm. There's only one possibility left: upstairs.

"Sherlock?" John asks again, this time leaning at the bottom of the staircase. His voice echoes a thousand times until it reaches the top.

Instantly, his mind conjures the worst possible scenarios. He imagines a Sherlock with burned hands after having touched the lamp for too long, or even worse, his body broken on the rocks, at the foot of the tower. John's gut clenches. As much as the man is annoying, he hopes that he's all right. He takes one step at a time, groaning from the strain put on his thigh, cursing Sherlock for making his life a misery for the last twenty-four hours.

When his foot finally sets on the wooden floor, he lets a sigh of relief. Sherlock is there, leaning on the metallic frame going around the glass walls. Lost somewhere deep in his thoughts, eyes on the ocean raging in front of them.

John has seen his fair share of storms, yet it takes his breath away every time.

The sea is so high that it nearly spills over the land, waves hitting high on the northern wall of the lighthouse. Ahead, the sky is dark for kilometres, until it merges with the water at an invisible point at the horizon. Here, perched at the end of the world, it looks like the apocalypse is coming from them. Somehow, Sherlock isn't frightened at this spectacle of nature's most angry mood.

"She's beautiful," he whispers, staring straight ahead.

John nods, turning his head to have a better look at him. Standing in front of the lamp, like that, the light catches in his curls, dramatically emphasising the angles of his face, the paleness of his eyes. There's something so eerily exotic about him in a way John doesn't understand, yet he can't help but be drawn by his presence. In the middle of the storm, Sherlock isn't the clumsy lunatic that John witness downstairs, but a force of his own, down to the grace and the beauty that John had found in the body on the beach.

"It is," he answers, still looking at Sherlock.

It is. The storm is beautiful. And for the first time, John has someone to witness it with him.

 


	2. Chapter 2

John springs up in a sitting position, sweaty and disoriented, his hand still clenching over the gun he had a minute ago. He breathes in as the harshness of the waves hitting the stones replaces the sound of snipers and screaming men. The fireplace slowly focuses into his vision, as does the man sitting in front of it. He is perched at the end of the mattress on the floor, his arms wrapped around his knees, having insisted that should John take his bed back. John's heart squeezes in his chest, as he imagines himself going on his knees to reach him, to be held in his arms, to feel the comforting warmth and weight of another human body over his. He shakes his head. The thought is gone.

He wraps himself in the duvet, and wonders if Sherlock has slept at all, or if he was awakened by his screaming. It's clear that Sherlock has been watching him, only to turn his head the moment he regained consciousness. At least, he had the presence of mind not to touch him, or it would have ended badly. John shifts to the mattress on the ground, and goes to sit down beside Sherlock, whose gaze is reflecting the crackling embers in the fireplace.

Their knees touch.

John has no idea what to say. It's the first time he has woken in someone else's company since that disastrous night with Sarah. Usually, he would take a cold shower, or put the radio on, or even try to write a few words down at his desk, as his therapist had suggested long ago. Tonight, he doesn't.

"They were hurting you," Sherlock finally breaks the silence. "But they weren't here." He's avoiding looking directly at John, as if that would make him angry. There's something nearly childlike about his prudent curiosity.

John clears his throat. "I have nightmares, sometimes," he answers, as if that explains everything. Surely Sherlock knows about PTSD — it's everywhere, these days. Every single culture on Earth knows what war looks like, and what it does to people.

"Is Murray…" Sherlock starts, unsure, as if testing the waters, "your mate?"

Oh God, he's been talking in his sleep, hasn't he? It doesn't surprise him very much. "Yes, he's a good mate of mine. 'Was a nurse in our quadroon. One of the very best. He saved my life when— well…"

"Why isn't he here, then?"

John chuckles. "Between his wife and being on the field, he doesn't have much time to visit. I don't blame him."

"What a cunt!" Sherlock exclaims, his hand hitting the mattress. John jumps back, surprised at how that quiet man can be so vulgar, sometimes, as if raised on the docks by a pair of swearing sailors.

"Don't say that!"

"Why not?"

"Christ, because it's offensive!" He's smiling, nonetheless. It's harder to catch the subtleties of insults in other languages. He should know, for the number of times he nearly got his head exploded after trying to put up complete sentences in Pashtun.

"He deserves it," Sherlock says, with a wave of his hand. "He shouldn't have two mates at the same time."

"What?! Sherlock, do you—" John stops. This is not making any sense. "We're not— Murray and I are friends, not lovers. God," he lets out. "Bill's as straight as an arrow."

"Straight?"

"Not interested in men."

Sherlock nods, slowly beginning to understand. "Ah. So you don't have a m— love?"

"No," John says. Isn't his living situation self-explanatory?

"Why do you want to be alone, then?"

John's jaw clenches. Sherlock's questions are becoming more and more personal, and frankly, a bit rude. He's not _that_ alone, he thinks. He goes to the village, from time to time, where he talks to Sarah. He shops at Anderson's, and calls Harry every month. That's not being _alone_. But that's also not the truth.

"It's not a question of _wanting_. I guess I just don't… fit with people. Not anymore."

"You fit with me."

John frowns at Sherlock, whose corner of his lips is tugging his mouth into something of an involuntary smile. He's probably trying to say, in his clumsy English, that John's mere presence isn't a total pain in the arse like it usually is for everyone else.

Nonetheless, the words warm him. "That's because I doubt you're even human, sometimes," he teases Sherlock, lightly punching him on his arm.

Sherlock sways under his touch, and starts smiling to the point that he can't restrain himself from laughing. He shoves John's back against the armchair with a push of his hand, and lets himself fall back on the mattress, arms in a cross, feet extended in front of the fireplace, thigh resting over John's toes. John's laughter dies at the back of his throat, and he lets his head fall back against the chair, eyes on Sherlock. His skin is glowing under the firelight.

"I am alone, too," Sherlock whispers after a while, eyes set on an invisible point on the ceiling.

John smiles to himself, his gaze lost in the fire. He doesn't exactly understand if he means that he lives alone, or doesn't have any friends, or if he does, feels lonely all the same. Whatever the answer is, John knows how it feels.

He stands up, tugging the duvet with him. "Come on," he says, extending a hand to Sherlock, "let's go make some tea."

 

***

 

After an early tea, they have toast for breakfast and John starts to plan his day ahead. He takes a quick shower and shaves, letting Sherlock use the bathroom after him, since it always takes him thrice the time to get ready. He quickly checks the lamp upstairs and everything seems fine, apart from the fact that the storm is still raging outside, with no break in the clouds in view.

When he goes back downstairs again, Sherlock is ready, wandering through the kitchen and inspecting the butcher knives John uses for the fish.

"I'm going to repaint the basement," John announces, when he sees Sherlock's judging stare land on his hole-ridden jeans and old tee-shirt. "Do you want to help out?"

"All right," Sherlock says, interested in the idea of having something to do other than sit around.

"You'll need to change, though, let me see if I have something for you…"

In the end, John finds him a pair of old jeans from the boxes downstairs, and gives him one of his grey tee-shirts. It's slightly too short for him, riding up Sherlock's waist every time he extends his arms even a bit, but as ever, his clothes do not seem to bother him. He puts them as he's told to, and meets John downstairs.

"Let me guess," John says, "you've never painted before."

Sherlock shakes his head, but John isn't surprised. The man seems like he's from a fairly comfortable upbringing, not very handy in physical situations, although he did prove to be strong when he attacked John on that first day. It takes him a few minutes to teach Sherlock how to handle the different brushes and cover the walls, and he's pleasantly surprised to see that Sherlock is in fact very methodical in his work. _Scientist_ , John reminds himself again, and continues to work on his side of the wall.

After an hour, John takes a break, stepping off the step-ladder to look where Sherlock is at: not very far, but the quality of his strokes is much more satisfying than John's quick job of it. It's clear that he's having fun, too, concentrated on covering every single small detail of the wall, leaning forward, his nose nearly brushing in the paint and his shirt revealing a strip of his lower back.

John licks his lips and clears his throat, going for the can of beer he had brought downstairs before they started. He sits on one of the boxes, flexing his bad leg, and takes a sip, eyes riveted on Sherlock's back.

"So, do you have a girlfriend? Or… a boyfriend?" He clears his throat again, trying to sound casual.

"No." Sherlock's reply is slow, and he doesn't even look back at him. "When I said the I'm alone, I meant it."

But is he interested in, well, either? John is dying to ask, but that might be a bit too forward for a conversation with a man he's just met two days ago. A man that is objectively good looking, yes, but that he isn't interested in. If he raises the issue, Sherlock might think that he's coming onto him, that he's flirting, which is not the case.

"Why?" John asks, a bit curious. Someone like Sherlock wouldn't have too much trouble finding themselves a partner, would they?

"I am considered… peculiar, even for my own kind," he says matter-of-factly, with a shrug. It doesn't seem to bother him that much that he's different.

"It doesn't surprise me," John says with a smile. "For what it's worth, I think you're brilliant." Sherlock turns to face John, clearly in disbelief. He must not be told that very often, John thinks, and it makes his heart grow tight in his chest. He stands up, clearing his throat and leaving the can on the box, as he picks up the brush again. "Well, yes. You went to sea by yourself in order to study some kind of lopy—"

"Polyp."

"Polyp, that you're apparently the only one to know about. You nearly drowned and then recovered like it was nothing, and now you're painting that wall as if you've done so all your life."

Sherlock looks down, blinking.

"Sorry, was that too much?"

"No, no, it's— fine."

"You're observant as well. I've seen you look around the room a few times, and I bet you caught things others wouldn't see."

John shuts up, returning to the task at hand, not exactly knowing why he's feeling generous with compliments today. Maybe he hasn't slept enough. Maybe he's been alone for too long. At this point, any company is good company, even if it's an insufferable cursing tea monster. Sherlock doesn't seem to know what to answer. The silence between them grows awkward, and John's brain scrambles around, trying to find some random question to ask.

"You've really got no family, then?"

"Not really." He shrugs again. "I don't know my father, and I haven't seen my mother since I grew up. I have a brother, but the less we see each other, the better."

John chuckles. God, the last time he's seen Harry she was drunk out of her mind and in the middle of a divorce. Now things are supposedly better, but he doesn't think their relationship will ever go back to what it was when they were kids.

"You have a sister," Sherlock says, as if he's able to read John's mind in that moment.

"How do you know that?"

"There's a picture on the handle above the fire."

"You mean the mantelpiece," he corrects. "Yes, that would be my parents, my sister and I. Told you about being observant," he chuckles, hoping that it will be enough for the subject of their conversation to take another direction.

"Why don't you see her?"

"I call her, sometimes. Why don't you see your mum?"

He realises that his tone is accusatory, and that it's also not of his goddamn business, but it's too late. Sherlock steps towards him, but only goes for the paint bucket in the middle of the room. He returns to his wall in silence, and John registers that he has not painted a single centimetre himself since this conversation started.

"She lives with a community that does not approve of my presence."

John's chin jerks back. "Like a… religious community?" Maybe Sherlock _was_ raised on some kind of hippie island worshipping a voodoo god? He imagines a younger version of Sherlock, half-naked and attending some kind of dark-magic ritual that would end by human blood being spilled. Or worse, a boy sent to some kind of strict convent, being beaten for being _different_.

"Something of that kind," Sherlock answers, although he does not linger on the subject. John lets it drop: it may be a source of trauma. "Why do you live here, by yourself, if you're English?"

John's eyebrows pop up. Sherlock isn't usually the one asking questions, and this one is a bit forward, but he sees that the man is curious to know why. The thing is that he really does not know why. Well, he knows why _this_ place, after that night years back. Just before his first leave, he decided to come up here with a bunch of friends from uni to party on the family grounds that used to belong to his grandparents. The place was technically his and Harry's, but it was only when they arrived on the spot that they discovered that it had been bulldozed over by the government for some reason. Instead, they spent the night in a rented house near the beach, just south of Dunnet Head.

The party had been monumental, even though it was only the six of them on the beach, that night. John was so pissed he only remembers snogging Bill Murray over a childish game of _spin the bottle_ , although he had refused at first, only convinced by his friends that he needn't to be so hung up about it. Later on, he was gently thrusting in the pretty Samantha McNeil, his hazy mind imagining a broad chest instead of breasts and a jaw that would leave stubble burns on his cheeks.

He had one hell of a headache the morning after, while the plane was lifting off Inverness's tarmac.

When John returned home for the last time, limping from having taken a bullet to his thigh, he had spent a few months renting a tiny flat in London, which was much more than what he could afford on an army pension. The day after sharing a coffee with Stamford on a bench in the park led him to the train station, with everything he owned packed in a small luggage, after which he established himself in a small house at Dunnet Head. He met Sarah, of course, but even if the town could afford two doctors, nobody would have wanted to be taken care of by a suicidal and dangerous war vet. When old Bryan from the lighthouse died, that spring, John took his place in the now more-than-useless tower.

"I came here a long time ago, with some friends, and we had a good time. I guess it's been the place where I've been the happiest. Needed a bit of that when I came back from the war."

The silence between them is febrile, and John knows that Sherlock's mind is buzzing with new questions. By some sort of small miracle, he only nods and doesn't ask. They paint in silence until John's part of the wall meets Sherlock's, and their shoulder brush against each other while they finish the work.

 

***

 

John makes soup, that evening, and is reminded yet again that Sherlock seems to come from another planet when he stares down at the bowl and the spoon, confused. John starts eating his portion as he feels Sherlock's eyes on him, tracking every single movement he makes, from the moment he puts the spoon in the bowl to the moment it reaches his lips. It's a bit annoying, to be under such constant observation.

After a few minutes, just when John is about to ask if Sherlock is okay, if he wants something else to eat, Sherlock takes his spoon in hand. He shakily raises it from the bowl, soup spilling everywhere.

_Sluuuuuur_ —

"Oh for God's sake!"

Sherlock jerks back, spoon falling to the floor in a hard _cling!_ , and John shuts his mouth, both of them surprised at his reaction.

"Just—" he starts, "just…" What, fuck off? Eat like a proper adult for once? Surely if Sherlock could, he _would_. Does he have some kind of fine motor skills problem? Anything John didn't see during his initial medical exam of him?

He sighs, picking up his bowl between his hands, and sips the soup directly at the rim. Sherlock follows his lead and takes his own bowl between his large hands, and slurps at the liquid. At least the table won't smell of soup for the next decade, John thinks. Sherlock smiles, clearly liking what he's eating, and puts down the bowl again, a yellowish moustache forming above his upper lip. What would it be like to kiss it off his face?

John clears his throat and averts his gaze. Jesus _buggering_ Christ. This is not Bill Murray behind the excuse of a moronic game and too much alcohol. This is a man, in his house. Of course John doesn't want to kiss him. He shakes off the thought instantly.

They eat in silence, Sherlock stealing looks from time to time to the oven on his left, as if it is about to explode, and John stealing looks from time to time to Sherlock.

He gets up after a while and puts the dishes in the sink. "I think I should do a more extensive medical exam on you," John says, not looking at him. He wants to test his reflexes, at the very least, and check if there's truly no injury to his head. That might explain a few things. He shouldn't have waited so long after that first day to think of doing a full check-up. Damned be the storm, it's been on his mind a lot, lately.

Sherlock nods.

"Good. Go sit on the bed and take off your jumper," John says.

He fetches his medical kit from under the bathroom sink, and when he steps back into the room, Sherlock is obligingly sitting on the bed, naked from the waist up, waiting.

"Do you have any allergies? Do you smoke, drink or take drugs?"

Sherlock shakes his head, following John's hands with his eyes, a bit apprehensive.

"Can you lie down, please?"

He does as he's told, and John starts examining his internal organs by pressing around Sherlock's stomach. Under his touch, Sherlock sucks his belly in.

"Just relax," John tells him. "It won't hurt."

Sherlock swallows, evidently trying to relax his muscle. He's not used to being touched, John notices, even during a medical procedure. At this point, he wouldn't be surprised to hear that it's the man's first medical exam ever. Damned be these hippies, he thinks, and their belief that love and whatnot can cure anything. Yet Sherlock does seem to be in very good health.

"Sit up?" John asks, as he takes the stethoscope from the bag.

He blows on it a few times, trying to warm the metal. He takes a step forward, between Sherlock's knees, and applies the stethoscope to his chest.

Sherlock hisses, jerking backward, and hits his head against the wall.

"Sorry, it's a bit cold," John says, trying to conjure his most doctorly-reassuring smile. He waits until Sherlock wiggles to the side of the bed again, and leans in to listen to his heart.

There's no special condition here, nor is his pulse abnormal in any way. He moves down, towards his belly, to check his digestion, and then switches to his back, in order to take a listen at his lungs.

He's close, definitely close, and can feel Sherlock's slow breaths catching on his shoulder.

"Right, that seems fine. Let's check your lymph nodes. I'll be touching your throat," he warns him, wrapping the stethoscope around his own neck.

He places himself directly in front of Sherlock, taking two fingers of each hand, and palpates the area under Sherlock's jawline. He feels Sherlock swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down, and John lets his touch linger for a bit. Sherlock is staring at him, his eyes so blue that they seem transparent in the darkness of the room, his eyebrows in a slight frown. John inches his fingers a fraction backwards, where he feels Sherlock's blood pulsing hard against in his veins.

"Okay, good," he says, only to fill the silence.

He's about to take his fingers off when he notices the smallest bumps under his fingertips. He bends his knees, and distinguishes three small scars, nearly faded, on each side of Sherlock's neck.

"I've always had them," Sherlock says, his voice low, and John jumps back, letting go of him.

He doesn't quite know what to say, so he says nothing. Everything seems to align: from his seclusion to his community, his strange ways of interacting with others, his scars… He's been trained for it, to recognise the signs of abuse. Perhaps Sherlock wasn't doing research when the storm hit him, but escaping the hard way of life he had known since childhood, ready to gamble with his life in order to find a kinder community. John wants to ask, yet the words catch high in his throat. It's none of his business, it's not as if he's officially acting as a doctor now, and it's clear that Sherlock is safe, here, with him, at least until the storm passes. Maybe that's why he said he hasn't any family: he doesn't want to return to them.

He tests Sherlock's reflexes, which are surprisingly better than average, and his pupil dilation. There's a slight anomaly there, apart from the fact that Sherlock reacts aggressively to having a light shone in his eyes: they constrict more quickly than normal, and his pupils dilate bigger than average when he removes the light. It's not a medical concern, although he must have an amazingly good eyesight in the dark. But again, not a medical concern.

He does a final check for signs of concussion, but every single test comes back negative: Sherlock is in perfect health, apart from the few bruises that are slowly fading away on his skin in shades of yellow and brown.

"You're perfectly fine," John concludes. "I still don't know how you managed to survive that storm and not to drown. You're one lucky sod."

Sherlock smiles and wraps his fingers around John's stethoscope, his knuckles brushing at John's chest. "Can I?" he asks.

"Sure." He takes off the stethoscope and put each end of it in Sherlock's ears, who winces under the uncomfortable feeling. He smiles as Sherlock takes the metal bit in his hand, exactly like John handled it a few minutes back, and gauges its weight, its function. John would never tell him that, but he looks like a child who's given a reward after behaving himself at the doctor. His curiosity is unwavering.

"Here, you can listen, if you want to," he says.

Slowly, Sherlock extends his hand, placing the stethoscope over John's heart, at the exact same spot John had placed it on him at first. His eyes widen when he finally hears John's heartbeat.

"Count the beats, I'll be measuring the time."

John counts for fifteen seconds, trying to slow down his heartbeat to a reasonable pace, while a wrinkle appears on Sherlock's face, between his eyebrows as he concentrates. When Sherlock gives him his result, he multiplies it accordingly.

"Seventy beats per minute. Yours was a bit lower, but that's because you're younger," he explains, trying to find a sensible excuse for why his heart is currently ten beats faster than its usual. For God's sake, he's losing control over himself. "Right." He clears his throat. "You can put your jumper back on. I'm going to turn on the radio, see if we can have a weather forecast. I don't know about you, but I can't wait to be able to go outside again."

God, what wouldn't he do for some fresh air right now? And to see anyone, anyone other than Sherlock, whose presence twenty-four hours a day is wearing on him? He should go out, once all of this is done, try to meet a woman, or something like that. God knows it's been a long time. He plucks the stethoscope from Sherlock's hands, and puts back the kit in its rightful place.

After a while, he decides to check the weather. Joining a pensive Sherlock in front of the fireplace, he fiddles with the button of the radio until he finds the right station.

"—BBC Radio Scotland at six o'clock… is Annie McDonald… Good evening."

He sits back on the armchair, sinking a bit so he can extend his legs in front of the fire. It's been bloody humid, these days, and his leg is killing him. There's something about a political conflict in Southeastern Asia. He doesn't care much about that but he needs to stay attentive since the news only finishes with the weather report, and tries not to pay attention to Sherlock's crossed ankles slowly sliding towards his own feet.

"And now unto the weather," the announcer says, and John straightens himself on his chair. "If the south of… country is still sunny, this beautiful weather won't last. The storm that is… the north of the country will move down south, so expect good thunderstorms by the end of the week. Unfortunately, another set of storm clouds is coming from… unto the North, which means that the current weather will last for at least five more days."

John hits the chair with the back of his head, letting out a groan. _Five_ days. Five more bloody days inside that little room, with no possible escape from his surprise guest. Sure, they have enough food for two, but _five days_ ! He's not going to survive _that_.

He stands up, about to shut the radio off and the stupid musical program its playing before Sherlock extends a hand. "Don't!" he says. "Leave it."

John sighs, but leaves the music playing. Sherlock seems engrossed by it, and it's as well: he needs a shower, and some time alone.

When he comes back to the room, Sherlock is still in his seat, his body swaying from side to side to the rhythm of the music. It's a ridiculous sight, but it makes John smile, more than it makes him angry. When only harsh glitches come out of the radio, Sherlock stands up, and in what looks to be a practised choreography, taps on the box a few times, before he comes to sit down again. John wants to ask him to shut the music off: there's no way that he can fall asleep to that, but Sherlock is so enthralled… Surely he can't refuse him one of the small pleasures of life, when they will be hiding here for days on end?

Fine, he thinks, as he sits down on his own bed. Five days. He can do this. He's been in the army, for God's sake, he can do this. He rolls on his side, bringing the duvet with him and faces the wall. Surprisingly enough, the violin playing at his back soothes him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all your lovely comments on chapter one! They are greatly appreciated and it's always fun to know what you're thinking! <333 See you on Monday!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for spoilers if you've never read or seen Life of Pi?

His jacket smells of beer.

His trousers smell of beer. In fact, John is pretty sure that every goddamn thing he's wearing  _ reeks _ of beer. A hint of smoke from the fire and… (is it  _ gunpowder _ )?

The sand slowly gives away under his feet. He walks down the beach, unsure how he got there or what he is supposed to do. A bottle of beer in his left hand. The sky is clear, and somehow, everything is quieter now that he is outside. Ah, he remembers: Steph— no,  _ Samantha _ , snoring way too loudly for him to ever find sleep again. Wasn't even a good shag. Damn. He had pulled up his trousers, put on his tee-shirt and quietly walked away from the room and from Murray's own half-opened door.

He stumbles on the sand, right-knee-left-hand-bottle-of-beer-right-hand-left-knee. Jesus fucking Christ, he's drunk.

He sits on his heels, rubs his temples with one hand, and lets his back hit the sand behind him. His eyes try to settle on a distinct point in the sky, but the multitude of stars isn't helping the haze in his brain. Suddenly, he feels very small.

It’s not like the polluted sky of damned East End. God, it's tomorrow, the day he finally fucks off his father's basement in favour of a military base in the middle of the fucking desert. It'll be like holidays. Good fucking riddance, he thinks, and swings his beer at his mouth.

There's sand on the rim, and it tastes awful. He’s bloody drunk.

Sam's said to him that they should write to each other, but it's a moot point. She's pretty and kind of clever but a bit boring. Nothing worth doing the excruciating long-distance thing. Or maybe he should, because where he'll be going, well… No birds, only blokes.  _ Don't be so bloody hung up and kiss him!  _ Fucking spin the bottle game. All drinking games are shit. Why does he bother? None of it matters. Not to the stars, at least. Not in the grand scheme of things.

God, he's  _ fucking  _ drunk.

He gulps the last of his bottle and sticks it in the sand. If he stays long enough for the tide to come, it might take him away. He smiles at the thought, a second before he hears the cry.

What the hell? John stands up, hands in front of him to prevent him from stumbling again, and waits to see if it was only a product of his imagination. No: another cry, stronger this time, carried over the beach and the water. Someone is being attacked.

John takes the bottle with him, and speeds up, walking towards the source of the sound until he reaches the corner of a small cliff.

What he sees, he's not sure he understands.

At first the situation seems clear: three fishermen on the shore, tugging at their net with great energy in direction of their van, yelling directions to one another. He supposes that it's not rare for fishermen to fish at night or, at least, early in the morning, but it's the first time he's seen any — and they look like they are having a rough time with whatever is in the net.

It moves. And it's  _ big _ .

Not big like a thousand fish, big like  _ one _ big bloody thing. Certainly people don't hunt seals, or at least, not with nets? He can't really see that well from here, but—

"Harder, Wilson, pull bloody harder!"

"The van's over there, ya numpty!"

They argue for a while, and John can't help but stare at the shadow in the net, one of its ends rolling on itself in a desperate attempt of regaining freedom, or breath, or both.

Of all bloody things, a hand pierces through.

A hand, one attached to an arm and to a chest, clawing at the sand, its heel digging in the rocks trying to resist the tug of the men, who started screaming.

"Get it, you, get it!" the Scottish one yells at the third, a young boy — not older than John, for sure. His face, half-hidden in the shadows, is contorted with fear, hands clenched over a harpoon. He raises it and, with the wooden end of the weapon, stomps the hand in the sand. It retracts itself with a yelp of pain, and John can't help but to spring forward from his hiding place. They have a human being in there, for God's sake, and whatever they want to do with them, it's  _ wrong _ .

"Hey! Stop! Let go!"

The three men raise their heads towards him, baffled. He takes a step forward, brandishing the empty bottle in one hand. He probably doesn't look all that menacing, God, he's so bloody pissed.

The thing in the net moves again, and the young boy blindly sticks the dull end of the harpoon somewhere in the moving mass. This time, the cry is a mix of pain _and_ rage.

"You don't know what—" the British man begins, but John leaps forward, swinging the bottle at him.

"I fucking said to let go!"

He smashes the bottle against the man's head, who goes down. The Scottish one tries to grab him, but John's not completed his military training to be defeated by two grandpas, drunk or not. He catches the man by his collar, and swings him on the ground. It's only then that he sees the net moving, this time forward, going for the youngest one of the gang, who scrambles away with a shriek of terror. John turns on himself, but the fisherman is already tugging is unconscious friend towards the van. He stands there, waiting until they are well off, before he falls in the sand, going for the net.

He takes a shard of broken glass and works at the strings around the already existing hole, the person inside helping him by tugging on the net with impressive strength. It rips completely in a single sound.

A young man stares at him with big blue eyes, widened by fear, excitement and a bit of curiosity too. His lips are swollen and reddened by blood. He's young, more so than John. Eighteen, or maybe nineteen? But that doesn't explain what the hell he is doing in a fisherman's  _ net _ .

Then, he sees the tail.

He does not understand at first. Well, of course, he understands, he knows about them just like any little child who has got their hands on a fairytale book, but he doesn't  _ understand _ -understand. Yet there it is, just where his hips and legs should be, a few scales growing on his skin, going down into a long, dark tail.

God, John's not only drunk, he's fucking hallucinating too, now.

"Are— are you all right?" he says, pointing at the side of the kid's— the thing's tail, where blood drips from where the harpoon had struck, earlier.

It— he looks at him, probably scared out of its— his mind. He might not even understand what John is trying to say, or worse, he might want to attack  _ him _ now that the others are gone. Yet he only nods, and turning on himself, scrambles towards the water until he disappears between the waves.

John's walk back to the house is a long one. At some point, he falls on his back, taken by sheer exhaustion and too much alcohol.

Under him, the sand shifts.

It's harder now, more compact, the air entirely dry. He knows where he is: he would recognise it from smell alone. A rifle goes off somewhere in the distance. He never quite forgets about Afghanistan. He rolls on his front, hearing Conan yelling at him, declaring Andrews's status.  _ KIA _ . John opens his eyes, and ramps on the ground to take Blake's pulse. Still beating. He kneels up, his body tensing, waiting for the inevitable moment of its demise. He can never change how it goes, no matter how hard he's tried.

The moment his hands apply pressure on Blake's chest, John's shoulder explodes.

_ "Watson! Murray, Watson's down!" _

_ "John! Are you all right? John, John!" _

The last thing he sees, is the blue eye of a sea turtle, looking down at him. Then, everything goes dark.

"John!"

John jumps in his bed, Sherlock's face in view, just above his. "John," he whispers. "I did not wish to frighten you. They were hurting you again," he repeats like on the previous night, "but they are not here. I promise."

He doesn't know what to say, but before he needs to make up a coherent sentence Sherlock leaves him alone to go to the kitchen, and puts the kettle on. John breathes in, and out, trying to remember the tricks his therapist taught him back in London.

Sherlock comes back, handing him a cup of tea, as if it is the magical solution to every single problem in John's life. He accepts it nonetheless with a grumbled  _ thanks _ , and takes a sip. It's surprisingly good. And also a bit comforting. Sherlock must have watched how he has done it in the past, although it doesn't taste exactly the same.  Once he sees that John is indeed slurping at the magic medicine, Sherlock walks away, his pyjama trousers catching on the back of his heels. John lets himself smile at the sight of him: Sherlock doesn't see John's PTSD as a problem at all. He does not see the danger of it, like the folks at the village, nor is he pitiful, like Sarah's quick and worried looks she throws at him from the corner of her eyes.

Just as Sherlock sits down in front of the fireplace, John's dream flashes back to his mind. The part about Afghanistan never changes, but it's the first part of the dream that is new to him. He remembers being drunk that night, years ago, and passing out in the sand. The next thing he knows is that he was waking up at dawn, a bit further down the shore, water lapping at his shoes. There was something interesting at his feet: a small, shiny rock, revealing itself to be blue under the first ray of sunshine. He picked it up, only to see that it wasn't a rock but a scale, like from a big fish, or maybe was it a piece of a shiny shell? Neat, he thought at the time, he could make a pendant out of it. But between falling asleep and him waking up? Nothing.

_ Unless _ .

No. God, no. It's only a dream. A Freudian slip of some sort, his mind finding Sherlock so weird that it gave him a fish's tail. Because it  _ was _ Sherlock, caught in the fishermen's nets. John has simply been spending too much time in his company since the beginning of the storm, no wonder he dreams about him, either. That's it. Only a dream. Mermaids — well, mer _ men _ , in this case, do not exist. They are impossible: no one can be half-human and half-fish and survive. Evolution does not work like that. And Sherlock certainly has two legs, and not a tail. That's enough to stop John's mental debate with himself.

The storm has been stressing him out, and Sherlock's presence is not helping.

He puts the cup on the ground, beside the bed, and turns on his side, facing the wall. He ought to get some more sleep before dawn. And no strange dreams, this time.

 

***

 

John stares at the ocean at his feet, standing on the edge of the glass room, with the vague hope that there is a break in the sky somewhere at the horizon. There isn't.

He sighs, swinging the dirtied cloth over his shoulder and kneels down in front of the lamp to start cleaning it. Sherlock has not accompanied him upstairs this time, and that's for the better. He has been insufferable for the past two days, nervously clawing at his neck, fidgeting with the collar of his jumper and running around the room like a madman. He has been drugging himself on far too much caffeine by drinking tea at every hour of the day or night, and John has decided that an afternoon away from him would give him the respite he needs not to commit an act he might regret.

What troubles Sherlock remains a mystery, and he is not only restless because of the lack of personal space — which he does not seem to care about in any way. He has interrupted John yesterday, who had been quietly wanking in the shower, by strolling in and asking if the Great Wall of China, as he heard on the radio, is a real thing.

"Of course it's real," John had grumbled, letting go of himself and thanking God that Sherlock had not pulled back the shower curtain on him.

"But  _ why _ ? Why build a 21,196 kilometres-long wall?"

"I am not discussing China's ancient defence tactics with you while in the shower, Sherlock. Get out!"

Frustrated with the lack of sensible answer, Sherlock had slammed the door behind him, and John returned to his previous activity — trying not to think about how Sherlock's interruption had not changed his physical state. If anything, he was even more aroused. Jesus Christ.

No, he does not know what is on Sherlock's mind, but he catches him sometimes, throwing nervous looks around him as if the world is about to split in two and swallow him whole. Maybe he isn't fond of storms? No, that's not it.

What is even worse, John reflects, scrubbing at the side of the lamp, is Sherlock's physical state in which he has been for the past two days, around the time when he started being an absolute prick. He guesses he would be too, if he was sporting an erection for multiple hours per day.

"Just… go take a shower and take care of yourself," John had gently suggested the day before, when Sherlock was rearranging the cups in the cupboard for the third time, this time by size instead of colour.

"But I am  _ clean _ !" Sherlock had countered, apparently not at all interested in dealing with the piece of anatomy that was currently tenting his trousers.

John wonders if Sherlock is from some sort of religious upbringing that forbids masturbation. Surely everyone at a certain point must get around to it, even with how inherently wrong some people say it is. The problem seemed to be resolved in the morning, though, and John knows that he will have to deal with a bit of laundry later on this evening. He is not even mad — the poor man needed some relief, and it definitely gave him less of a mood for a few hours this morning.

He is nearly done with the job upstairs when, of all things, the bloody fire alarm goes off.

"Shit!" he curses under his breath, grabbing the clothes and going down the steps two by two. If there is something he really can't afford, it's the lighthouse blowing up in violent fires. Especially in the middle of a storm — they might not even be able to make it outside.

He steps down on the first floor in a hurry, and looks around him: there is no trace of a fire, but Sherlock is sitting on the floor, his back against a drawer, hands over his ears.

"Make it stop!" he yells, his eyes filling with tears.

John takes the cloth off his shoulders and waves it in front of the detector, just above the oven. It takes a few minutes, but the conundrum finally stops. Sherlock carefully removes his hands from his ears, staring at the detector as if it about to go off again.

"What the hell were you doing?"

There is a fork in the sink, on which is impaled a piece of burnt fish, and one of the stoves is turned on.

"Experiment," Sherlock says. His hands are trembling, but John refrains from commenting on it. "I was trying to establish if different types of fish scale burn at different speeds."

Right.  _ Scientist _ . John sighs and takes the fork from the sink, noticing that it is one of his finest pieces of salmon, the one he usually keeps for harsh nights in the middle of the winter. "You can't do that, Sherlock," he grumbles, putting the "experiment" in the trash.

"Why not?"

"We don't have an infinite amount of fish."

Sherlock shrugs. "There is plenty enough to see us through the storm," he says, "and then you'll just have to get some more."

"We can't  _ just _ buy some more!"

"Why not?"

John hesitates. "It costs money. Money that I don't really have at the moment." It's not entirely true: he has savings, for the day he decides to leave this place, if he ever does. But he's certainly not wealthy, and every piece of fish counts. Especially when he did not think he would have a guest for so long.

"Ah." Sherlock looks down, but does not apologise. Maybe John is too hard on him. If Sherlock came from a wealthy family, it’s normal that he did not have to count every single penny he could dispose of.

"No more experiments," John says. "At least, no more experiments that can damage my property," he adds, seeing that Sherlock is about to fight him on that point.

"Can I analyse the fabric of the clothes downstairs, at least?"

"I suppose so. But no setting them on fire in any way."

"Fine," Sherlock grumbles. Giving him something to do is not a bad idea. He has been in a terrible mood, lately, and it is not like John needs the clothes downstairs. It's a fair enough decision.

"You can help me wash the lamp upstairs, if you want to do that instead," John suggests. "Although it looks like you might need a shower."

"But I  _ am _ clean!"

 

***

 

John tries not to think about the dream, which he ends up doing a lot. Every time the cold and dark shore finds its way back into his mind, he hears the creature's screams with more and more intensity, as if the dream has somehow unlocked long-forgotten memories. Again and again, John persuades himself that it is only a dream, one that it’s of no real value.

Mermaids are a construct of collective imagination. True, they are used in different mythologies and cultures, all over the globe, but that is only because stories circulate. That is how they work, and Sherlock certainly isn't half-fish. It would be ridiculous to think so. That's why John never raises the issue with him, that is why he never mentions the dream, even as a joke. Sherlock is a lunatic, a charming one, maybe so, but that does not mean he comes from the sea or anything ridiculous like that.

So he tries to banish it to a corner of his mind, yet it always comes back, like a broken record, a song stuck in his head. A song that he doesn't like much.

By the time it is night again, John picks up the book he has been reading before Sherlock interrupted his life. It's nothing serious, just a tome of Harry Potter to occupy his mind.

"A book!" Sherlock exclaims with rare delight, walking over to look over John's shoulder. "These don't do well in the water," he adds. Is he referencing the books he lost when his boat sank? Or maybe John understood wrong.

"No, they don't," he says with a chuckle.

"Can you read it out loud?"

John jerks his chin back. "Don't you know how to read?"

"No, I never learned to read in English," he says, with a hint of arrogance, hurt that John would consider him illiterate. He's a scientist, of course he knows how to read. But then, he learned English just by hearing it? That's strange.

"Fair enough. Er— yes, I can read. We might be more comfortable on the bed, though." It is frankly not his best idea, but he knows that Sherlock will want to follow the words on the page, and his big brain of his might even catch up and learn to read English in the meantime. Damned be the proximity it creates between them.

"All right," Sherlock says, as he sits down on the bed, leaning his back against the wall, ankles dangling in the air.

John climbs beside him, and opens the book to the page he was at. No question of starting over just for Sherlock when it's a favour he does him. He starts to read, feeling Sherlock's breath catching against his neck. They are close, closer than ever before, and somehow, it does not feel uncomfortable.

He turns the page and nearly  _ hears _ Sherlock's brain panicking — he was probably looking at the wrong words at the wrong time. John sighs, but places his finger under the words he is reading now, and lets Sherlock follow with his eyes. He wiggles closer to John, leaning over the book, their arms brushing. For his lack of shyness when it comes to parading around entirely naked, Sherlock is incredibly unused to physical proximity. Is he not used to it? Maybe his community did not value children's play, or parental affection. It would explain why Sherlock is an absolute nightmare when it comes to boundaries — but at least it shows that he is comfortable in John's presence. He already said that he doesn't have any family or friends, girlfriend, or well, boyfriend, for that matter. Has he ever had any? Any _ one _ ? Of course he has — a man like him, in his late twenties or early thirties and with his looks would not have any problem getting attention. It's true that he's both shy and arrogant, quiet and insufferable, and tremendously socially awkward. But that doesn't matter when it comes to the pure physicality that is sex, doesn't it? John knows a few girls from his secondary school that would have given anything to be with the handsomest blokes, even if they were the dumbest specimen to have walked the Earth.

Sherlock is far from dumb. He might be weird — and even that, charmingly so — but he's certainly clever  _ and _ attractive.

Maybe his community disapproved of sex before marriage. (Although that rule only ever seemed to apply to women, and not to men, he reflects.) Or Sherlock might just be not interested. That's possible, isn't it?

"Wand," Sherlock whispers, and John's eyes focus again on the book he is holding. He had not stopped reading during all this time.

"Sorry?"

"Wand, not ward.  _ Harry took his  _ wand."

John frowns. "You said that you don't know how to read." Was that a lie? What for?

"Honestly, John, that word appears every single sentence. It's not hard to associate it with the symbols printed out on the page."

"Letters."

"Letters, yes."

"Right," John says, rubbing his forehead with his free hand, his elbow brushing Sherlock's arm. "You really are something, aren't you?" Half-an-hour behind a book and Sherlock understands the most common words in it.

He shoots a quick look at him, to see that Sherlock is smiling. Proud git. "Go on," he says, leaning over John's shoulder as he turns the page for him, his long fingers caressing the paper for a second longer than what is strictly necessary, in John's opinion.

He swallows, and keeps on reading, trying to concentrate on the story rather than on the man sitting beside him. Soon enough, Sherlock puts his head on John's shoulder, his curls tickling John's cheek. What wouldn't he give for Sherlock to be a woman right now. It would be so much easier, to turn his head and to meet the corner of his mouth.

Except that he would not feel the sharpness of the bone, the prickling of stubble on a woman.

"John?" Sherlock asks, a bit impatient, his voice far, far away. "You stopped reading."

"I think it's enough for tonight," John says, and adds a cough to sound more convincing. He might have a sore throat in the morning, anyway.

"Can I have it, then?"

"Sure."

John lends him the book, and Sherlock rolls on his front, opens the book at the first chapter, and skips through a few pages at the time to have a look at the book in its entirety. Is he able to read a few words, now, or is he only looking at the format of the writing?

With nothing better to do, John lies down on his back, looking at Sherlock's face who, beside him, is concentrating on the novel. The fire's light catches in Sherlock's curls, making purple shades dance in them.

After an extensive analysis of the book, Sherlock closes it and rolls on his back. "You write," he says, and it's not a question.

"I do." For a brief second, John's stomach contracts on itself: Sherlock has seen the stack of paper hidden in the desk's drawer, since he has explored every single corner of the lighthouse by now. But he just proved John that he can't read them. There is no reason to panic. It's not like his writing is incriminating in any way.

"They're not letters, since they're not addressed to anyone," Sherlock says, thinking out loud. "Is it a journal? Or a book?"

"The latter. Well, I'd like it to be a book, but it's not working out pretty well."

Sherlock frowns, with a look that is clearly judging John for not being intelligent enough to finish the simple task of writing an entire book. "What is it about?"

"A sailor," John answers. "An old man who has been sailing alone for quite a while."

"That sounds… boring."

"Hush, I'm not done yet," John chuckles, elbowing Sherlock on his sides. "Er— so, an old man, and then, one night, his boat gets stuck on a beach, and he is not strong enough to push it back to the sea," John lies. "He knows that nobody will help an old man like him, and so he comes to the conclusion that his sailing days are over. As he walks down the shore, he sees a— a… turtle."

"A turtle?!"

"Yes, a sea turtle, bigger than any he has seen before, at least the size of a canoe, but there's a problem."

"Oh?"

"The turtle is stuck in nets, being dragged in the sand by a fisherman. He sees the old man, and asks for help, saying that he will give him some of the profits he will make from selling the turtle. The old man hesitates: that would be enough money to buy himself a new boat and sail again. But he can't do that to the turtle, no, so instead, he fights the fisherman, and cuts the turtle free out of the nets."

"Why would the old man do that?" Sherlock asks, his voice in a quiet whisper.

"He's seen the turtle's eyes. They were more human than the fisherman's. He's not wrong, because the moment he frees the turtle, it starts to speak. She thanks the old man, and tells him that he can ask for a favour, for anything, really, and she will grant it."

"Does he ask for his boat back?"

"No. Instead, he climbs on the turtle's back, and asks her to take him away to sea. She does, and the man is never seen again."

Sherlock frowns, and John sees that he is trying to make sense of the story. He does not know why he started telling it, when it is far from the book he is actually planning to write.  Sherlock crosses his hands on his chest, over the book, and they lie there in silence for a few minutes.

"Or maybe," John says, "maybe he was just an old drunk and drowned."

Sherlock turns his head to look at him, curls catching on the sheets. "No. I like the first story better."

John smiles to himself. "Sherlock, have you ever read  _ Life of Pi _ ?"

"No. Pi like the mathematical number?"

"Not exactly, no," John answers. "It's the story about an Indian boy who is emigrating to Canada by boat, with his family and the animals that they had at their zoo. Except that the boat sinks during a storm, and he is the only survivor on this tiny lifeboat stuck in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. But he's not alone, not really: there’s a zebra, a hyena, an orangutan and a tiger on the lifeboat with him."

"What are these?"

"Dangerous animals. Especially the tiger, since he ends up eating the other ones, until there's only him and the boy left."

"Does he eat the boy as well?"

"He doesn't. Somehow, the boy tames the tiger and finds his way back to the continent. When the police asks him what happened, he tells them his story, but they don't believe him."

"Why?"

"Well," John smiles, "it should be impossible to survive on a tiny boat with a tiger on it. They're incredibly aggressive, and dangerous."

"But you just said that the boy tamed him."

"Yes, but again, the police don't think that it's possible to do so. So the boy tells them another story, one where each animal is in fact a human, a member of his family or staff from the boat, leaving the police to understand that he was the tiger all along. In the end, he lets the police choose which version they prefer."

"That doesn't make any sense," Sherlock huffs, frustrated. "It's idiotic to let people choose what they want to believe when there is only one version that truly happened."

"That's not the point — since neither version can be proven, both exist at the same time. Belief transforms things into reality." Why is Sherlock not getting this? The point is so damn simple! "Which version do you think is true? The animal one or the human one?"

"The animal one," Sherlock says instantly. "If he spends the whole book talking about animals, I don't see why I should change my mind at the end of it."

"I think the human one is right. It makes sense, a young boy traumatised by the sinking of a ship, transforming the people he sees dying around him into animals to protect himself. I don't think that someone could have spent that much time in close proximity with a tiger."

"Why not?"

"It's simply impossible, Sherlock. The tiger would have eaten the boy."

"But if the story explains that the boy found ways not to be eaten, then it's not entirely impossible, only improbable. And an improbable story  _ can _ be true."

"Yes, but the point of the story is that both exist, the animal si— story, and the human one, at the same time. It doesn't have to be one or the other."

"No, it doesn't," Sherlock agrees in a whisper.

John turns his head to look at him. He has entirely lost the point of the conversation, the one he was trying to make at the start. Nothing makes sense anymore, and it's evident that Sherlock only wants to contradict him for the sake of playing the devil's advocate.

John closes his eyes for a second. He needs to think.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The tension is rising... Will it break, eventually? I guess you'll have to see on Friday. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up the rating goes, friends!

John walks downstairs, after having washed the windows of the glass room. He is sweaty in his old grey tank top, and can't wait to get in the shower. He has spent most of the afternoon and evening at his job, not knowing what Sherlock was up to. Not that he cares. He specifically does _not_. Instead, he was trying to scrub every single centimetre of the windows as if it could clean out of his life of every single problem that is bothering him. It did not.

He woke up that morning with his face buried in Sherlock's curls, not remembering the precise moment he had fallen asleep on the previous night, sometime after their conversation had ended. The book was lying on the floor, long forgotten, and Sherlock had been sleeping too. That, above all, was a rare sight. At first, John did not want to leave the comfortable cocoon they had created during the night under the covers, but when he felt the warmth spread down his chest at the sight of a sleeping Sherlock, he extricated himself from the bed, and went to put the kettle on.

Of course he feels protective of the man, he reflected at the time, but only as a doctor for his patient. Like a naturally caring person for the one he has saved from drowning. Nothing more.

When he got out of the bathroom, Sherlock was still sleeping, and so John left a few toasts behind and went on about his day.

Now, just as John's foot is stepping onto the landing, Sherlock is seated on the mattress on the floor, contemplating the fireplace and hugging his knees to his chest as he usually does. He has been less trouble today than lately, but still, John would like to know what is going on in that strange mind of his.

There are two cups of tea on the counter, and a glowing fire is warming up the room (John had shown Sherlock how to build one, the morning before). Even the bed is made, cover smooth and tucked with incredible precision. That's definitely something new. Good to know that Sherlock is finally acting gentlemanly, after all this time.

"What did you do, today?" John asks in a friendly manner as he takes the two cups of tea. They are still warm, and so he brings them over to the fireplace. It's the only thing that can alter Sherlock's mood, and after an impossible day of working upstairs, John feels like he would enjoy the company. He sits down beside him, grunting from the soreness in his muscles, and massages the back of his neck for a minute.

"You all ri— _Christ_!"

He's — John does not even know where to begin. His eyes are open wide, pupils dilated, and his curls a mess when he always brushes them meticulously. He looks absolutely frantic, but what is irrevocably weirder is the _paint_.

Sherlock's face is covered in red, white and blue dots, except that they're not exactly dots, more like hundreds of half-ovals painted with what seems to be the tip of his thumb. They follow his hairline, down the side of his face, his cheekbones, his chin, his neck, and grow larger and larger until they disappear under his jumper. Yet they're somewhat artistic, looking like some sort of tribal painting with precise patterns.

"What did you do?" he whispers, not entirely happy with the fact that Sherlock has been wasting his paint, and at the same time concerned about its chemical effects on his skin.

Sherlock turns his head, visibly hurt.

Is it some kind of ritual? Some religious tradition John has just insulted?

"No," he corrects himself, "I mean, it's fine, but why?"

Sherlock faces him again, lips half-opened, one of his hands _sliiiiiiding_ down between his legs. "It _aches_ , John."

His tone is so pained that in any other situation, John would have laughed at him. Yet the chuckle dies low in his throat. "Yes, I know," he says, unsure what Sherlock wants him to do. Can't the man learn to rub one, for heaven's sake?

" _Please_ ," Sherlock whispers again. "You like me."

Down and down goes the line of coloured dots, so red, so blue on the creamy skin of his throat. A subtle invitation to see more. To _desire_ more.

"I— _Sherlock_ ," Johns breathes out, his head cocking to the side. Does Sherlock know what he's asking for?

"Please, John, just— make it stop."

God. Sherlock never, ever says please, and now he is _begging_ , of all things. He closes his eyes for a second. It's wrong — it doesn't feel wrong, but it's wrong nonetheless. It's also been so bloody long since he has been with anyone. If it stays between them, between the four walls of the lighthouse, surely nobody will know. It's— God, people experiment all the time. _(Don't be so hung up, Johnny, and kiss the man! It's only Bi—_ No. Sherlock. Only Sherlock now. Focus! _)_ He is not homophobic. He has no problem with men sleeping with other men, but then, there is the inherent fact that _he_ shouldn't.

He chuckles, his laugh high-pitched. "You really don't understand, do you?"

"Maybe not. I like you, and you like me," Sherlock repeats, as if it's the simplest thing ever. "Don't you?"

He closes his eyes again. He thinks of the dream, of their conversation yesterday. Of the animal side. Of the human side.

None of it matters at all, right now.

"God help me, but I do."

It is like every single dam in his body has opened at the same time. He slides down on the floor, scrambling in front of Sherlock, and raises a trembling hand to cup his cheek. The paint feels dry and rough under his skin, but it comes off at the corner from the sweat, dirtying his fingertips. Sherlock is looking back at him, mouth half-open, breathing shallowly. He does not move.

John dips his head, going for a kiss, but at the last second Sherlock jerks his chin back, his eyes on John's lips.

"Hush," John whispers in reassurance.

He gently cradles the side of Sherlock's head with one hand, and this time, when he comes closer, Sherlock does not move away. He pecks at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and exhales — that part is not at all different from what he knows. Sherlock is not moving, and John can nearly hear his heart trying to out-beat his thoughts.

He slides his mouth over Sherlock's lips, properly kissing him this time.

Sherlock moans, letting go of his knees so that his legs fall to each side. John takes it for what it is and comes closer, settling between Sherlock's legs, keeping his eyes on him even when Sherlock interrupts the kiss, cheeks reddened from something other than arousal. Embarrassment. God, he needn't to be, he's the most delectable human being John has ever seen. Unless…

Apart from his nerves, it's obvious that Sherlock has not kissed anyone before. Logically, it means that he has never done any of it. Perhaps it's another one of his experiments, having escaped from a rigid community that was holding back his sexuality. Maybe he doesn't even desire John — he simply is the first person who has ever been friendly towards him, the first person he met after his escape. Sherlock is thirty-something, offering his virginity to John, who has just kissed a man for the first time. God, this can't get more ridiculous.

No, it's good. It's good. It's all… fine. He's going to have sex with Sherlock. To show him how it's done. How it is to be loved for the first time.

His thumb trails on Sherlock's chin as he kisses his jawline, gently tugging downwards for Sherlock to open his mouth. When he does so, John kisses him again, this time sliding his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, who jerks back.

"All right?" John asks.

"Yes," Sherlock says, panting. " _Again_."

John smiles, and does as he is told. This time, Sherlock finally kisses him back. It's hesitant and controlled at first, but the moment their tongues meet, Sherlock seems to have forgotten everything else as he kisses back with more enthusiasm than experience. John is not about to complain — it's been months since he has been this close to anyone, and there is a certain thrill to experience someone else's first.

He lets his hands slide down Sherlock's chest, internally relieved not to be bothered by the flatness of it, until he reaches the hem of the jumper. He slips his hands under it, letting it rest on the hot skin at Sherlock's waist while he kisses his way down his sharp jawline, and unto the soft spot on his neck.

Sherlock lets out a breathy chuckle. "The things you do with your mouth, John Watson…"

John smiles into his skin, before he sucks on harder on the paint-free spot. He adds a bit of teeth and Sherlock squirms under him, rolling his head back to give him more space. John thrusts his hips into thin air, his own arousal surprising him: he's hard, harder than he's ever been after only a few kisses. He lets go of Sherlock's neck, giving back a bit of attention to his pink and swollen lips, until he breaks of the contact.

"What do you need?"

Sherlock looks down. "To be inside you."

John swallows, moving away from him. That's… direct. He has never done this before. Sherlock has never done this before. It's a recipe for disaster, everything could go horribly wrong. Off all the things… Hell, John might even have been amenable to blow him, but out of everything that's possible, Sherlock is asking for this. To _fuck_ him.

"Please?" Sherlock says again, as if he's asking for some kind of minor favour or a Christmas gift he really wants.

Jesus. Yet John can understand him — he remembers how much he wanted it during his own first time with a girl. He swallows again, his eyelids burning over his eyes, feeling like he will lose that battle no matter what. Just the thought of having Sherlock inside him… Sherlock, fucking him from behind until he—

"All right. Okay, fine, all right."

Sherlock grabs him by the neck, smashing their mouths together as they fly backwards, falling on the mattress on the ground. John is on top, feeling Sherlock's erection pressed against his hip through only a few layers of clothes. Sherlock's hands travel to his back, his arse, pulling as if he wants them to fuse together on the spot. Finally, he rolls them both so that he is on top, and lets John tug his jumper over his head, only to reveal more painted spots, bigger, going in every direction. John trails his fingers over them, following the patterns. Do they mean anything? Before he can ask, Sherlock recaptures his mouth, rutting his hips against John's.

"Christ, Sherlock, we can't just— we need to—"

He needs to concentrate if he wants this to go well. He reaches under his own bed, blindly tugging the carton box where he keeps a few of his belongings, and sighs when his hand finally closes around the bottle of lube and hands it over. Sherlock stares at him. John might as well have given him a frying pan in bed.

Sherlock's half-open mouth trembles when he sees John's softening expression on his face. "Show me," he says, between two kisses. "Show me, please. I need to be inside you."

"All right — let's get your clothes off."

He unzips Sherlock's fly, and tugs and the jeans and pants at the same time, letting Sherlock's erection spring free. It is not the first time he has seen an erect cock, not with being a GP and having worked in the army, of course, but the sight of it makes things suddenly very real. It's _pretty_ , of all things, resting flat against Sherlock's belly, its pink head already smearing drops of precum on his skin. John licks his lips. It's _his_.

For a man who did not care at all about walking around naked most of the time, Sherlock seems now embarrassed at his undressed state, the flush of his cheeks spreading to his neck and chest, under John's scrutiny.

Right, his turn, then. It takes John no more than a minute for him to be fully naked, sitting in front of Sherlock, feeling the heat of the fire on his back. Sherlock's gaze travels over his body, stopping on his cock, and then lower, just where his scar is embedded in the skin of his thigh. Shit. John covers it with his fist, and tugs Sherlock down for a kiss, his painted chest brushing against his own.

He reaches for the lube, and puts it in Sherlock's had. "You need to use this, on your fingers first, so it won't hurt."

"Where?" Sherlock breathes out.

John chuckles, now suddenly finding Sherlock's inexperience rather endearing. It's not like there are a thousand possibilities. He lies back on the mattress, knees bent, and waits until Sherlock works the lube on his fingers, the rather generous amount dripping on the sheets. John takes Sherlock's hand in his own, guiding him between his legs until he feels Sherlock's finger skimming over his hole. His breath catches in his throat as he lightly pushes on Sherlock's hand, feeling the tip of his finger pressing _right there_.

Right there, right there, "right there."

Sherlock's eyes widen under the realisation. "I won't fit."

"You will. This— it's a muscle. If you stretch it enough, you'll fit. Start with one finger, and go slowly."

It's so unsexy, explaining such basic things to Sherlock, yet John finds that he doesn't particularly mind. It's quite necessary too: he certainly won't let Sherlock near him without proper preparation. The whole ordeal isn't exactly free of risk, but it makes things rather… exciting.

His thoughts are shut down the moment he feels the tip of Sherlock's sleek index slipping inside him.

"Slowly," John repeats, his head falling back on the mattress.

Above him, Sherlock nods, his eyes staring at the place his finger disappears, chest heaving. John winces under the sensation: it's uncomfortable and it burns, but Sherlock has the presence of mind to start thrusting his finger once it can't go further. John's throat tightens on itself as he swallows, thinking that maybe this is some huge mistake he is making.

"You can add a second one," he says nonetheless, and Sherlock obeys, pushing in his middle finger as well. God, he can't even begin to explain to Sherlock how he might find his prostate, and so he finally decides to let out a small, "good, that's nice."

It's a lie, but Sherlock's shoulders drop, relaxing a bit as he smiles at John. Maybe all he needed is a bit of a confidence boost. Slowly, as if John has convinced himself, the slow burn of the fingers becomes something more pleasurable. He lets his eyes wander over Sherlock's body, over the patterns drawn on his skin, and resents a bit the distance between them. No, it's better that he lets Sherlock focus on one thing at the time, he thinks, and it's not like it's unpleasant to watch him.

Sherlock scissors his fingers, the thumb of his other hand tracing circles over John's knee, and John surprises himself by moaning.

Oh God, he needs more.

"Now?" Sherlock breathes out.

"I— yes, God. _Now_. Just, let me—"

Sherlock nods frantically, retracting his hand altogether in a too-fast motion that makes John wince. He waves it off, placing himself on his hands and knees, and takes a moment to slip his hand between his legs. His cock has softened, not that Sherlock seems interested at all in that part of his anatomy. He gives it a few strokes and it hardens again, both because of his hand and from the shot of arousal that came through his body when Sherlock's warm hands seize him by the waist.

"You need to go slow," John warns him. "Really slow, okay?"

Sherlock hums. A second later, it's there, John can feel it, the tip of Sherlock's cock against his hole.

"Wait!" He turns himself, pushing Sherlock away with one hand. "Lube, Sherlock, _lube_."

"Right— sorry," Sherlock says, sheepishly as he sits back on his heels, hands going for the bottle of lube. He is so frantic that it ends up dripping everywhere, his hand a mess even after coating his cock with the most of it. He hesitates for a moment, unsure what to do with it, before he wipes his hand over his thigh.

John drops his head between his shoulders, crunching his eyes shut but smiling at the same time. When did lack of experience become so endearing, all of a sudden?

They go through the same motions again, and this time, when Sherlock finally pushes in, both of them gasp. The first thought that flashes into his mind is that it's like being split in two. Panic seizes him deep in his chest and for a moment he is afraid that there's something wrong, that they're doing this wrong, that his body cannot possibly accept that kind of intrusion. Sherlock's cock, thinner but longer than his, feels, so, _so_ much bigger now that it's inside him.

Sherlock only keeps pushing steadily until John feels his hips coming flush against his arse.

"John?"

"Don't. Move," John orders, gritting his teeth.

Sherlock's chest comes in contact with John's back, but as promised, he does not move. Instead, he places his hands on each side of John's. He can feel the quivering of Sherlock's abdominal muscles against his lower back, and his harsh short breaths directly in his left ear. Slowly, John reaches for his cock again, hoping that it will alleviate a bit of the pain.

"John?"

"What?" He barks it out, as if Sherlock is rudely interrupting him during an activity that requires intense concentration, and not like they're currently _having sex together forGod'ssake!_

"I really, really want to move."

John lifts his head, unable to restrain himself from a high-pitched chuckle. "Slowly," he says, giving up. "You have to go slow at first, okay?"

Sherlock hums against as he starts rocking his hips, and John feels him moving inside him. It takes a minute or two for the burn to fade, replaced by a suddenly much more intense wave of pleasure.

"Fuck yes," he moans, surprised with himself. "That's good. God— harder, Sherlock, you can go harder."

Sherlock's only answer is a high-pitched whimper as he snaps his hips forward in quick, hard jabs. It's not exactly good: he fucks John as if the world is going to end in a few seconds, with no experience in how to pleasure his partner. He does not even _seem_ to be thinking about pleasuring his partner. John really can't blame him, his own first time was definitely not his best performance either.

Yet, there is something pleasurable, something exciting about being taken like that, roughly and without much care. Letting someone pound him from the back. Being _used_. Hearing Sherlock's moans that come with each push, making the bed rattle against the wall. The sound of skin slapping on skin filling the small room. Sherlock's cock sliding in and out of his body, again, and again, and again, and again, and _again_. There are no more thoughts going through his brain, no more searching for excuses. It just feels good. His body, his mind, only existing in that moment to feel _good_.

Sherlock's thrusts become erratic, until his hand bites down at John's shoulder as he pushes himself the deepest he can go and comes with a surprised shout.

John grunts as Sherlock falls unto his back, while his fist is still flying over his cock. He gently turns his hips in order for Sherlock's softening cock to slip out.

"John?" Sherlock asks, sitting up on the bed, looking absolutely debauched, paint coming off at the places where sweat glistens on his skin.

He has lasted a few very, very short minutes, not that John blames him for that, but it rather leaves him wanting more. He leans in and kisses Sherlock, nearly climbing on his lap before he pushes him down on the mattress.

"Just lie down, yes— like that," he says, as he straddles Sherlock's waist with his thighs.

He strokes himself hard and fast, aware that he is under Sherlock's scrutiny, whose mouth falls half-open under such a display. John's eyes do not shy away, travelling over Sherlock's body, from his broad chest to his reddened lips. God, he can only imagine what it would be like to be on top of him, fucking into him with the strength and roughness he would never use with a woman. What it would be like to slip his cock between those ready lips, to feel Sherlock sucking him—

He comes. Hard. Spilling all over his hand and chest, and he gets some on Sherlock too. He's too bloody exhausted to do anything about it right now, and so he lets himself fall on top of Sherlock, who encircles him in a tight hug.

"John?" Sherlock repeats.

"Gimme a mo'."

Sherlock hums, and soon enough, John can feel Sherlock's fingers raking through his hair, plucking at a few strands here and there while he lets John nuzzle at his neck. They lay there for a few minutes, John quite grateful for this impromptu scalp massage accompanied with a few hummed melodies he can't put a name on.

He rubs his nose on Sherlock's skin, lifting his head. "All right, let's sort this mess before we get stuck together."

"Let me," Sherlock says, instantly rolling John on his side and getting up. John chuckles, eyeing Sherlock's arse in the darkness of the room. Maybe Sherlock walking around naked isn't such a burden, anymore. "Tea?"

"No, Sherlock, don't start making tea now. Just fetch the flannel."

Sherlock turns on his heels, his hand holding the back of his neck, visibly scanning the room with his eyes. He opens a random cupboard. Oh, John realises, he does not understand what _flannel_ means and is too proud to even admit it. He smiles.

"Just bring the piece of cloth that's on the back of the chair, will you?"

Sherlock does as he is told and hands him the flannel. He starts to tuck John’s legs in under the duvet while John dries off his hand and thighs. He bites on his lower lip, trying not to laugh too much at Sherlock's overbearing attention, who is deliberately cocooning him with the blanket now. At least, he makes it up in the aftercare, he reflects.

"There," John says and extends his hand, lending the flannel so Sherlock can swipe it over his skin a few times. "Now get under here." There is no need to sleep in separate beds, at this point.

Sherlock climbs in, tugging the blanket over himself. "Ooof," he lets out, and gets the bottle of lube unstuck from under his back, letting it fall on the floor.

John chuckles and waits for a moment, wondering if Sherlock has some kind of sleeping position he'd naturally prefer. Instead, he lies down beside John, and takes his hand.

It's funny, really, and John would laugh if he weren't so bloody exhausted. He only smiles, smearing a lazy kiss at Sherlock's temple. Sherlock has never experienced a good post-sex cuddle, and only settles for holding his hand. When John asks him why, his words slurry, Sherlock replies as if it's the most obvious thing ever:

"So that we don't drift apart, of course."

John hums, but never replies: he is already drifting.

 

***

 

For the second day in a row, John wakes up with a lanky arm thrown over his chest. This time, he doesn't panic.

He gazes down at Sherlock's lean body, at the pale skin reflecting the light from yet another gray day beginning on the other side of the window. At the colourful dots spread on his body, and at the places where the paint melted together in brownish spots. He can feel Sherlock's breath against his neck, regular and deep. Still asleep, then.

John wiggles a bit, unsticking his arse cheeks from the sheets, one after the other, and winces. He's sore. That's certainly… new. Not that he regrets what happened. Oh, sure, the sex had not been _phenomenal_ , although excitingly new, but it's not surprising the first time around. They can only get better from now on.

Will they?

Sherlock does not live here, and he will return to where he came from once the storm dies down — or will continue his trip to wherever he wanted to go in the first place. Contact his insurance, if he has any, buy a new boat and sail away to keep studying those polyps of his. And John will be able to return to his peaceful and solitary life, things returning to how they always have been.

Doesn't mean that he can't enjoy Sherlock's presence until then.

John bends his arm at the elbow, slowly tracing patterns on Sherlock's back. A sigh escapes Sherlock's lips, as he tucks his head under John's chin, smothering a yawn. He looks like a tall jungle cat, frustrated to be bothered in his sleep. After a while, a blue eye opens, its corner instantly softening at the sight of John.

"Morning, you," John greets him, trying to place a kiss on Sherlock's head, only that it ends with his chin hitting Sherlock's temple.

"Hello," Sherlock mumbles, his voice rough and unused from sleep.

He seems quieter this morning, less frantic than during the few previous days. Well, if John had known that the man only needed a good shag… He smiles, this time aiming correctly as he places a kiss on Sherlock's forehead, hands travelling down his body, skimming over his flanks, his arse. Sherlock grabs John's head on each side, meeting him in the middle with a slow, sloppy kiss. Not a one-night thing, then. Good.

For someone who only experienced his first kiss on the day before, Sherlock is getting amazingly better at that too. John feels his cock — which was already showing significant interest from waking up so close to another naked body — hardening against Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock wiggles in order to crash their hips together, again as if they would be able to fuse together if they just tried hard enough. Still holding his arse, John gets Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, eliciting one of those agonising whimpers he absolutely adores. He rolls himself on top of him, pinning his wrists down above his head.

Sherlock's eyes are on him, wide and curious, his mouth half-opened and his lips already pink from kissing. He is something out of an oil painting, John thinks, one of those leisured models lying back on white sheets, posing as Greek gods. Nothing less than a Caravaggio, all contrasts and emotions, a quiet daring look in his eyes. John closes his eyes for a second, trying to commit the image to memory, until the head of Sherlock's erect cock smears itself on his lower back, reminding him of more urgent matters.

His eyes fly open as he lets a sly smile grow on his face. "None of that," John says playfully.

Now that Sherlock has had his bit of fun, it's John turn. Might show the young one a thing or two, he thinks, lowering his mouth on Sherlock's neck. He sucks hard, Sherlock arching under the love bite, his wrist trying to lift themselves up from under John's grasp.

"It's my turn, now," he growls, and Sherlock's body grows suddenly tense with apprehension.

"John?" he asks, quietly.

"No, no, we won't be doing that." He comes back up to kiss him properly, leaving Sherlock's wrist alone and gently rubbing his thumb at his temple instead.

"Then, what—"

"You'll see. Tell me if you want to stop."

Sherlock's eyebrows shoot up. "Go on," he says, a hint of daring back in his eyes.

His head falls back on the pillow, and he just lies there, starfish style. John smiles to himself, pressing kisses to Sherlock's chest, avoiding the paint. Reciprocation will be for next time. (If they have a next time— none of that now, though.) His thumb skims over Sherlock's right nipple, wondering if men enjoy it too — it's clear that Sherlock does, going by his vocal answer the moment John closes his mouth over it. He feels it harden and peak as he massages it with his tongue, before giving the other one the same treatment, Sherlock writhing under him.

He continues down Sherlock's chest, his mouth pressing love into every centimetre of Sherlock's skin. Down his belly, which Sherlock sucks in, ticklish. Down, down, down, until he smears his lips over one trembling thigh, caressing the other, this fingers bumping into the detail of a nearly visible scar. He comes back up again, nibbling at the soft skin where thigh and groin meet, picking up on the musky smell of Sherlock's arousal. He lets his eyes settle on Sherlock's cock, flushed and proudly erect.

He has never done this before, but he can't go much wrong. Sherlock is about to be a very, very lucky man.

"What are you—" Sherlock breathes out, just as John lowers his head and licks a broad strip up his shaft.

Sherlock cries out, one arse cheek lifting in a spasm as he contorts himself to follow John's mouth.

"All right?" he asks.

Sherlock nods, his hands curling into the sheets, his eyes still on John. Curious about what is going to happen next. Well, John can't stretch this moment forever, can he? He takes Sherlock's cock between his thumb and his index, and closes his lips around it.

Sherlock cries out again, thrusting forward so that John nearly chokes on him, his free hand flying to his hip to keep him steady on the bed. At least Sherlock did not come right this second, he thinks ironically, remembering the first time a woman had gone down on him.

John breathes through his nose, applying his tongue to the underside of Sherlock's cock, and starts to suck in earnest.

It is honestly easier than what he thought it would be, apart from the stretch that is hurting his jaw, lessened by the fact that Sherlock might be working himself into a state of hyperventilation above him. He is so lovely like that, mouth closing and opening through the little whimpers and cries, like a fish out of water. Lost in sensation. Entirely at John's mercy.

And John likes it too. He likes it _selfishly_. There's always something about making someone feel good, sure, but he thinks he could do this for the sole benefit of having a cock in his mouth, from the salty taste of precum down to the details of the veins rolling on his tongue. Hot and heavy. To be between the strong, muscled legs of a man, making him _tremble_ with only his mouth.

It takes less than a minute for Sherlock's hand to yank on the sheets, his belly contracting in a spasm as he shouts and floods John's mouth with salty come. He chokes on it, retracting his mouth a bit so that it only covers the head. He would have liked receiving a warning, but he takes the rest of it obligingly, swallowing around Sherlock.

Once Sherlock's head drops back on the pillow, John lets out the softening cock from his mouth, giving it a few last licks for good measure. He moves up Sherlock's body and is met with a lazy kiss.

Sherlock frowns at the taste of himself, and John chuckles. "The things you do with your mouth, John Watson," he sighs, as if he just had that kind of epiphany.

He kisses the corner of Sherlock's lips until they open again, and hears Sherlock's foot tapping twice against the mattress. "Why do you do that for?"

"Oh," Sherlock frowns again. "It means… thank you."

And so, every single time John thought that he was a prick because he wasn't polite… He had been thanking him all this time, in his own, weird way. "You don't have to thank me for a blowjob."

" _Blow-job_ ," Sherlock silently mouths, testing the word. He looks back at John, realising that something is wrong. "Yes I— but you haven't— what can I do?"

"Just your hand, your hand will be fine."

Sherlock nods and his hand goes to John's cock. The first touch is soft and hesitant, and John hisses, shaking his head. As much as he has fantasised about those hands, he won't be able to come like that.

"Yes," he encourages him, because that did the trick last time, "go on, that's good."

It takes a few strokes before Sherlock starts jerking him without any hesitation, somehow being attentive enough to find the right speed. His fist perfectly tight. He's looking at it, too, clearly enthralled by the novelty of sex, of touching someone's most private parts. And for the first time, pleasuring someone. God, and to think that John's the first man he's ever touched like that, the first cock he's ever held apart from his own—

"I'm coming, fuck— Sherlock, Christ, _Sherlock_!"

He spills over Sherlock's hand, so hard that it also mixes with the paint, high on Sherlock's chest. He sits back down on Sherlock's lap, heaving, his balance precarious before Sherlock tugs him in a tight embrace. From the corner of his eyes, he can see Sherlock raising his dirtied hand to his mouth, carefully tasting a bit of John's cum from the side of his index.

He smiles, apparently pleased with the result. "One day, I'm going to take you in my mouth, John Watson."

"I'll take you up on that," John says, turning his head so that his chin lies on Sherlock's sternum. "But first, we need a shower, get you all cleaned up from the paint and cum."

As on the previous night, Sherlock starts plucking at his hair, humming his little secret melodies to himself. When he's done, John rolls on the side as Sherlock's fingers wave through his own. Lying down like that, side to side, John can feel the smallest irregularity that is Sherlock's skin on his thigh. He tries not to think about whatever time they have left, being together like that. And above all, he tries not to think about the young fisherman, and the harpoon that was used, in his dream, to create a wound on the creature's tail, exactly where Sherlock's scar now rests.

 

***

 

They shower in companionable silence, both of them making sure that every single inch of Sherlock's skin is cleared from paint, to the point that he looks well scrubbed and pinkish once he makes it out of the shower. They did not go for a second round, not exactly, but let exploratory hands roam over each other's bodies. It always felt a bit intense, being under Sherlock's scrutiny, under his constant curious looks and sometimes judging stares, always seeing a lot more than he let on. He did avoid the nasty spiderweb-like scar on John's thigh, and spent the whole time humming his little song, unaware that he was swaying his hips to it, from time to time.

Once on the bath mat, they kiss again, surrounded by the warmth of the steamy clouds still around them. It feels all incredibly domestic, and, well, blissful.

"Go ahead," he says, "I'll take a minute to clean the tub."

There are spots of muddy water sticking to the edges of it, and once John has donned some fresh clothes, he returns to the bathroom to scrub it clean.

When he returns to the main room, it's empty. "Sherlock?"

No answer. He goes to the staircase, shouting Sherlock's name again.

"Up here!"

John rolls his head, but starts the tedious climb upstairs. It takes him a while, but once he reaches the top, he is rewarded with the lovely sight of Sherlock, leaning over the metal bar that goes around the glass room, his hair slicked back and his eyes set on a point on the horizon. He looks pensive, an expression that John can't read well.

He understands what's happening when he forces his gaze on the world around them. It sinks in his chest as hard as if he had swallowed a stone.

"She's calm," Sherlock says.

There isn't a turbulent wave on the ocean, this morning. The storm has passed.

"She is," John answers.

More than anything else, it feels like the end.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised awkward, and I hope I delivered? Also -- have fun picking at Sherlock's instinctual responses when it comes to sex and aftercare! ;)


	5. Chapter 5

"Sherlock, if you're going to get sick, tell me, because I'll stop the car."

Sherlock shakes his head, clearly too afraid to even open his mouth. Christ, he should have known. Sherlock never made his life easy, but at least he'll be out of it at the end of the day. John pushes on the gas pedal, eyes set on the horizon, waiting for the village to appear in view.

To think that the day had started with lazy morning sex. John had spent the rest of it packing a bag for Sherlock, who sat in his— _the_ armchair, sulking. They left just after lunch, John ready to go to the village, leave Sherlock at the station or make him take a cab to the nearest airport, buy some food and be back before dark. No need to make it last when the illusion is already broken.

He makes a slow turn on the road, keeping an eye on Sherlock, who clutches at the door handle, his lips in a straight line.

"Ah there," John says, when he finally sees the outline of a few brick houses by the shore. "Hang on, only five more minutes."

For someone who grew up in London, the village is small but it has everything John ever needs: a grocery store with a local fisherman (Anderson), a post, a hardware store, two or three pubs and the medical centre ran by Sarah. It's nothing, really, John reflects as they drive through, but even that seems to put stars in Sherlock's eyes. Cured from his earlier sulk, thank God.

He makes a stop at the grocery first, since it closes fairly early on the weekends. Sherlock follows him through the aisles, momentarily stopping in front of the cereals, picking up a box of muesli with the greatest care in the world.

"There are a lot of these," he says, a hand waving at the wall of cereal boxes, colourful and each one different from the other.

"Yeah, that's what we eat in the morning," _us humans_ , John nearly adds. God, he's being a dick again. He picks up milk from the opposite wall, and a batch of eggs. "Come on, we're done here."

No answer. John turns on his heels, but Sherlock is already gone from his sight.

" _Hey, you have to pay for that!_ " someone shouts, someone John recognises as being Anderson.

There we go, John thinks with a sigh, as he jogs down the alley towards the fish section of the store. Sherlock is standing there, an unwrapped package in his hand. John can swear that a moment ago, he was _sniffing_ it.

He is about to step in and offer to pay for the fish when Sherlock's head pops up, looking directly at Anderson with a glare that would make anyone want to go right through the floor. His whole body tenses in a way John has never seen before.

 _"You_!" Anderson shouts, surprised.

 _You know him?_ John wants to say, but before he can do anything, Sherlock drops the fish and literally jumps over the counter, going straight for Anderson's neck.

"Christ, Sherlock!" John cries out, going after him.

Anderson stumbles backwards under Sherlock's weight, but throws a punch square at his jaw. Sherlock only shakes his head, grunting, goes for Anderson's face, trying to scrape the skin off it. Breathless, John grabs Sherlock by the collar of his coat, tugging him back until he can safely seize his wrist and pull it to his back. It's a mistake: Anderson takes advantage, apparently not caring that the man cannot defend himself anymore, and punches him again, straight in the face.

"Fuck, Anderson!" He lets go of Sherlock, stepping between the both of them, fist clenched and ready to fight back if necessary. He does not need to: the moment Anderson sees him, he lowers his hands.

"Don't tell me that you know that— _thing_!" Anderson spits out, pointing over John's shoulder.

He doesn't look at Sherlock, although he can hear him massaging his bruised cheek, still tensed and probably glaring at Anderson. "Yeah, and why would you care? You two know each other?"

He throws a look above his shoulder, and Sherlock nods.

"Really, John," Anderson sneers, "I didn't think you'd be the type to fraternise with— oh." A disgusted smile makes its way on his face. "I know these freaks can be charming, because that's what they do, but you fell for that little trick, didn't you? You, of all people. You're _actually_ fucking him."

In the end, Anderson does not see it coming: he's against the wall, his hand twisted in his back. "Anderson, I swear—"

"I know they're something but never knew they could turn a good man into a bloody faggot."

John kicks him in the shins, making him slide down the wall until he falls on his side, holding one of his knees, crying out in pain. "Wash your mouth before you speak, you _cunt_. Good thing Sherlock's leaving, you won't ever come close to him ever again, do you understand?" he says in Anderson's ear, who nods frantically.

He lets off of his hold on him and stands up, straightening the hem of his coat. "Come on, Sherlock, we need to pay for our stuff."

John starts walking away, but Sherlock does not follow. Instead, he looms over Anderson, like a predator over its prey.

"You were a coward before," Sherlock spits out, "and you are a coward today."

Without any other word, Sherlock follows him.

They make it outside without any further disturbance. Sherlock seems angry and confused at the same time, walking with his chin high and his back straight, throwing looks as if someone is about to jump on him again.

"We're going to the clinic. They have a phone, so you can call your family back home. Or for a cab, whichever one you prefer," John says. Sherlock does not answer, and holds on hard as the car starts moving instead. Probably still shocked from what just happened, John rationalises. "So, you know Anderson?"

Sherlock does not look like he regrets attacking Anderson, still huffing little sighs of anger, and John can't blame him. Anderson was never his friend, but a bloke he knew, just the local fisherman. They talked a few times, and sure, Anderson never seemed to be the brightest person to have walked the Earth but John never thought he was so openly homophobic. And what was that about, about recognising Sherlock?

"Yes," Sherlock answers. "I was angry because he hurt me in the past."

 _I know_ , John wants to say, but does not. He too remembers the face of the young man on the beach that night, a harpoon in his hand and fear in his eyes.

It makes sense, like pieces of a puzzle coming together, except that the final picture it creates is impossible. Yet John can't refute it — Anderson just proved that his dream was in fact what truly happened that night. His father must have been the oldest English fisherman, then, and John's anger only boils harder when he remembers how cruel they were for the captured creature. Except that it _can't be true_. Sherlock does not have a tail, nor scales, nor gills or yellow eyes and claws, like John imagines mermen have. Maybe his dream was only partly a dream: maybe he truly did save Sherlock that night, except that his subconscious replaced the perfectly normal young man with a creature from the sea. Isn't it one of those Freudian things? Surely there's a rational exception to it all.

"John?" Sherlock asks, and John realises that they are now parked in front of the clinic.

"Right, let's go."

He climbs off the car, takes Sherlock's bags out for him and enters the clinic, only to be treated with an enthusiastic Sarah.

"Hi, John! I was expecting you today, actually, after that dreadful storm, right? Calling Harry today?" She comes in closer, kissing him on both cheeks.

"Nah, talked to her last week, I'm sure she's doing fine. I'd still use the phone, though, for Sherlock here."

Sarah's eyes widen when she sees him enter, on John's heels. She extends her hand in a polite greeting. "Hi… Sherlock? I'm Sarah." She drops her hand when it's clear that Sherlock won't take it, as he steps back, his eyes wary.

"Welcome," he simply says, his voice low.

Sarah's eyes are so wide that John fear they might pop off her face. _Sorry_ , he mouths to her, and hopefully she understands that he will explain it later. "Right, yes, the phone, it's just here," she says, going around the counter to put the landline on the elevated surface. "No charge, as always," she adds, smiling.

Sherlock looks expectantly at the phone, not moving an inch.

"Sherlock?" John tries. "You can make your call, now."

"Go away," he says to Sarah.

"Oh right, sorry!"

She leaves the room, and John sighs. "You really need to be taught manners, some day, you know?"

"I have no one to call," Sherlock says, straight to the point, not even bothering to answer John. God, someone is in a mood.

"Really? So when you meant no friends nor family… Not even an extended one?"

"I meant _no one_ , John. I am not the one who speaks in riddles," he adds, as if accusing John of doing so.

"Right, well then, I can call a cab, and it'll take you to the closest port or airport. How's that?"

Sherlock shrugs, suddenly very invested with the calendar up the wall. John signs again and picks up the phone to order a cab, one that would pick up Sherlock right at the clinic.

When Sherlock steps outside to pick up his bags, Sarah enters the room again, her entrance a bit too well timed for it to be a mere coincidence.

"So, he's…"

"Nobody, really," John says. "I found him on the beach just before the storm. He nearly drowned on me, and I've kept him at the lighthouse during the storm, for his safety. No way of getting out, as you know."

Yes, Sarah knows. She had to stay for a few days once, and they nearly had killed each other by the end of it. It was a rather brutal way to conclude that their relationship would never work.

"Oh God, is he all right?"

"Top notch, actually. You know me, I've checked him and checked again and he's absolutely fine. Lucky sod."

"He's a bit… you know."

"Weird? Yeah, I've noticed," he tells her with a laugh.

She chuckles. "You like him, though."

"What?" John says, instantly regretting for sounding too defensive. "Why would you say that?" he tries again, this time with a normal tone of voice.

"Well, you spent six days around the bloke and did not kill him, for once. And you look… I don't know, happier?"

He frowns. Is it that visible? "Really? I dunno. I guess that I missed a bit of human presence around me."

"Oh," Sarah says, as if suddenly realising something John does not want her to realise. "I see."

"No, you really don't," he says, but it doesn't sound convincing. Why does everyone assume that they're together, for God's sake? "It's not like that. And he's leaving, so I'll be by myself again by the end of the day. Better that way, really."

"No one should be by themselves, John Watson, especially not you," she says, with something of a pitiful smile that John absolutely hates.

"I have to go," he says, not knowing what else to reply. "See you sometime next week, maybe?"

"Ed and I are going to Murphy's on Saturday, if you want to join," she says, kissing him again on the cheek. It's a suggestion she makes every time John comes by, and each time, John's reply is the same:

"I'll see about that," he says, both of them knowing that he won't show up. "Have a good week. Interesting patients," he wishes her with a wink, just as he steps outside.

Sherlock is standing just where the parking lot starts, his eyes staring at a precise point in the distance. He doesn't move when John steps beside him.

"The cab is going to arrive soon. Once you get there, you tell the man where you want to go. Don't go too far or you won't have enough money to pay him — here's a fifty, and I've put some more in your bag for when you get there, okay? And try as much not to be sick in the car." Sherlock does not seem to be listening. "Still angry at Anderson?" John tries.

"She put her mouth on you." Short. Abrupt. To the point.

"Ah," he breathes out. Sherlock is hurt. "It's not like that. It's only a way to say hi, doesn't mean anything."

"She was your mate." Now he's _accusing_ him. Yeah, he was with Sarah a long time ago, which does not mean that he is currently with her or cheating on Sherlock with her — they're not even anything. God, why is this getting so complicated, when John always wanted the opposite for his quiet life at the lighthouse?

"For a short time, yes. She's with someone else now."

"Why?"

"Because our relationship did not work out, _evidently_."

"Like ours," Sherlock lets out, and John bites on his lip.

"Sorry." It's the lamest excuse John has ever uttered in his life. "Listen," he tries again, "we were… good, okay? Things just don't… always work out, I guess. You have to go home, and I have to go back to the lighthouse. There's nothing we can do about it."

A beat. Then: "I thought you liked me."

He won't even look at John when he says it. Why can't he scream? Why can't he accuse John of being an opportunist, of having taken his heart and his virginity when he was searching for comfort after a traumatic experience? Why can't Sherlock be mad, like at the army, like his dad— it's so much _clearer_ , that way, whom to blame.

Instead, John's answer never comes, and knows that Sherlock thinks it’s a no. It isn’t

John swallows, his throat nearly closing around itself. "Goodbye, Sherlock."

This time, when he extends his hand, Sherlock takes it. He doesn't shake it, just holds it with all the tenderness in the world, a harsh contrast with how tense his entire body is. "Farewell, John Watson."

John squeezes Sherlock's hand one last time, and before it becomes too obvious to anyone passing by, lets go. He turns on his heels, opens the car's door, and climbs inside.

He checks Sherlock's reflection in his rear mirror one last time, and when he shuts his eyes for a second after the first turn in the road, it burns. There is so much he could have said, he realises now. No need to make it sound so final: he could have said that Sherlock is welcome to visit again, or to call him at the clinic if he would have ever needed a friendly ear to speak to. But no, instead John is driving back to his bloody lighthouse in the middle of bloody nowhere. Maybe this is only proof that he deserves it, every single second of loneliness, of smothering silence. Everything he gets involved with ends badly. He should not have tried in the first place.

When he stops at his usual parking spot, John lets his head fall against the steering wheel.

"Fuck," he whispers to himself.

 _You were a coward before, and you are a coward today_ is the only answer that comes to him.

 

***

 

The room is, for the first time in days, quiet and peaceful. Empty. Lacking.

It takes John half-an-hour to sort all the groceries before he stands in the middle of the room, wondering what to do next. Finally, he sits down at his desk and picks up his old pen, in the hope that a few good words will come to him.

They do not. Not unusual.

The silence around him is more oppressive than comforting. Perhaps he ought to put the radio on, but it was used so many times by Sherlock… He sighs. Taps his pen around the desk. Shifts on his chair. Or maybe make some tea? Again, Sherlock's favourite thing in the world.

God, why does he need to be such a teenager about it?

He stands up. Sits again. It makes him wince. His arse is still sore, from yesterday. God, was it only yesterday? He licks his lips. Picks up the pen again.

 _A man fucked me_ , he writes, out of nowhere.

Scratches that. Furiously. Until it's only a dark blotch on the paper. Tries again:

 _A man made love to me_.

He hesitates. Then adds:

_I liked it._

_I like him._

John stands up, picks up the piece of paper and considers throwing it in the fireplace, before realising that they extinguished the last embers just before going out. Instead, he folds the paper in two and pushes it in one of the desk's drawers, left again with no interesting activity to do, one that might take his mind off of everything that happened today. He could work: the room downstairs still needs a second layer of paint, but he doesn't have the energy to do so. He crosses the room and lets himself fall on his armchair, rubbing at his eyes.

Outside, a car's horn makes him jump on the chair.

"No." John shakes his head. "No," he repeats, this time louder, a smile appearing on his face.

He jogs to the door while the horn goes off again and again, his heart clenching in his chest. He might be wrong, he might be very, very wrong but it's possible, surely, isn't it, usually there are no cars that come here and—

There's a cab parked behind his Jeep.

"Sherlock?" he whispers to himself.

The cabbie gets out of the car, opens the backseat door, throws out a bag and a very, very pale-looking man.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, jogging up to him. He helps him up on his feet, and from the reeking smell, instantly understands the problem. "You're sick."

"Damn well he is," he cabbie shouts. "Do yourself a favour, mate, and never put that weirdo in a car, ever again."

"Sorry, didn't know it was going to be that bad."

"Didn't know, didn't know, now I'll have to get my car cleaned. Christ Almighty!"

"John," Sherlock mutters, heaving and slowly slipping from John's grasp, who grips at him. He rummages in Sherlock's pocket and takes out a fifty, handing it to the cabbie.

"For all your trouble," he says. "Thanks for bringing him here."

The cabbie nods, muttering to himself. "…Big light on the shore, he said, fuckin' weirdo, I tell ya."

"Come on," John says to Sherlock, "let's get you inside."

They slowly progress down the path, Sherlock barely holding up on his legs, heaving from time to time but with nothing left to vomit. Once they are inside, John leads him to the bathroom, making him sit on the toilet lid. "Right, let's get your clothes off, and your face cleaned up. Do you think you're going to be sick again?"

Sherlock shakes his head, visibly too fearful to open his mouth. John kneels down in front of him and shoves off the clean — thank God — coat from Sherlock's shoulder. He unbuttons his shirt and throws it in the bathtub, along with his dirtied trousers, until Sherlock is stripped to his pants. John wets a cloth in the sink and kneels back down, gently wiping Sherlock's chin, mouth and neck, just to be sure.

"Tastes awful," Sherlock says, speaking for the first time since they have got inside. "I hate cars."

"I see why. My bad, I should have given you something for it. You'll feel better after washing your teeth, though."

John pulls out a jumper and some trousers from the travel bag, and leaves them to Sherlock who is already brushing his teeth at the sink. He then takes the discarded clothes downstairs, directly to the washing machine.

When he climbs upstairs again, Sherlock is dressed and sitting by the fireplace, in his usual armchair, hugging his knees like he always does. Like he belongs here. Like he never left.

 _Thank God_ , John thinks.

"Tea," Sherlock orders, when he hears John opening the fridge.

"You can't have tea. You're sick."

"I'm not sick _now_."

"It will make you sick again."

"No, it won't."

John sighs. It's like arguing with a child. He turns the kettle on and cuts a piece of ginger, plopping it into the mug when the water is ready. Sherlock should definitely avoid caffeine and milk right now, but a bit of ginger might soothe his stomach. When it looks ready, he takes the ginger out, and goes to the fireplace, where Sherlock grabs the mug from his hands.

 _Sluuuurp_.

"That's… disgusting."

"'Cos you're sick. Everything will taste disgusting for a while." It's just _so_ easy to lie to him.

Sherlock frowns, considering the cup and its content. His love for hot water must have won over him, because he slurps again at the rim of the mug.

They watch the fire for a few minutes. Sherlock is staring straight ahead like he usually does when he is sulking. It's obvious that he is buzzing with the need to talk about what just happened, but would rather die than be the first to speak.

All right, John thinks after a while. He can go first. "You're angry."

Sherlock glares at him.

"You have every right to be angry with me."

" _Don't_ tell me what I can or cannot feel," Sherlock bites back, with such fury that it makes John dark back on his armchair. "You made me leave!"

"I— Sherlock—"

"We mated and you made me leave!"

"Sorry, I—"

"I thought you _liked_ me!"

John gapes. "I do like you."

"Then why are your words not following your head?" His gaze returns to the fire, and this time, he sounds panicked. "I thought I understood people. I really thought I did, but then you make things so _difficult_. Things aren't difficult, they're just… things! You go around saying that I am angry at you when I am not. I can't be angry at you, John, because my head is too stupid and it makes it go away at the simple thought of you. But you want me to be, because you'd rather have me being angry than you being angry at yourself. Don't think I don't see it, John, your head being so stupid that it hates itself. And I don't know why, because you don't want to tell me why, but I don't think you deserve it."

He falls back against the chair, while John bites on his lip, his hand clenched on his thigh. "Maybe your brain is so stupid for liking me that it doesn't see why I deserve it."

"My brain would never be _that_ stupid, John." It actually makes John chuckle. "Now, I have gone to the port and they told me that my boat back home is not leaving before the full moon. I know you don't want me here anymore, but I don't have anywhere else I can go. I can find—"

"No, stay," John says, and Sherlock looks at him, surprised. "I'd be very happy if you'd stay, and I mean it. I'm sorry, Sherlock, about the things I've said before, at the clinic. I do like you. I like you very much, and I don't regret anything that we did together, and I'm sorry I wasn't able to convey that properly. I'm just… not used to being around people, lately—"

"Me neither."

"And I acted like a cock."

"Well, you have one," Sherlock says, and John stares at him. They share a look when Sherlock suddenly erupts in giggles, proud at having made the world's _worst_ joke ever, but probably also his very first one. It's so bad that John shoves his foot against Sherlock's leg and ends up laughing too, knowing that he is forgiven now.

How could he have ever preferred a solitary life to this? To laughter, to brightness, to _happiness._

When they finally stop laughing, Sherlock lets the mug down on the floor, his face going slack with exhaustion.

"Right, to bed with you," John orders, waving at the only bed remaining in the room. He tucked the mattress under the bed earlier on, and there's no reason to sleep apart if Sherlock is amenable to share a bed with him, which he seems to be.

"Will you read out loud?"

"All right."

John stands up, picking up the same Harry Potter book, and joins Sherlock on the bed. He sits back against the wall, and does not complain when Sherlock leans on him but wraps an arm around his shoulders. Just when is about to open the book, Sherlock puts his hand on top of it, stopping him.

"What?"

"What's a faggot?"

He is clearly referring what Anderson had said earlier. John straightens himself, a cold wave going through his body at the only mention of the word, one he heard used way too many times, and in fouler mouths.

"It's a pejorative term to insult gay men," he says, and sees that Sherlock is not quite following. "Men that like other men."

"Not everybody does?"

John chuckles. "No, not everybody does."

"Ah. So he understood that we had mated. He accused me of seducing you," Sherlock says, disgust all over his face.

"Well, you _did_ seduce me."

John's smile fades when he sees the look of horror wash over Sherlock's face. "Who can you— John, do understand that I would never try to do something against your will and if—"

"Sherlock, Christ, no! No— you didn't. Not like _that_. Seducing is not bad, it's not like forcing yourself on someone. Which you never did anyway. And don't worry, two men together, it's not illegal here, anymore."

"All right," Sherlock breathes out, leaning back against John.

"Is it illegal in yours?"

"Oh no," Sherlock says, and even though John does not see him, he knows that he is smiling. Strange, he thought that Sherlock came from a more conservative place. Or maybe it's only his community that is against it. "And I don't care if it's against the laws of this country or not. It's not wrong. We're not wrong."

"No," John concedes.

"Is that what you are afraid of?"

"Of what?"

"Anderson calling you a faggot."

John leans his cheek over Sherlock's head. "No, I'm not afraid of Anderson."

"Good. You needn't to be afraid of words. It's like your enemies in your dreams: they're here, but they're not hurting you. They're only words. And if Anderson ever comes close again, I will jump on him and eat him raw."

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "There are no bargains between lions and men. I will kill you and eat you raw." - The Song of Achilles
> 
> I can't take credit for Sherlock's last words in this chapter, as they are Achilles's words from The Song of Achilles (which I greatly recommend!), adapted from the Iliad. I was trying to come up with an alternative for Sherlock but I've been doing a lot of Greek mythology for school lately and I couldn't think of anything else to have him say.
> 
> As always, thank you for your comments! <333


	6. Chapter 6

"I am not coming after you if you fall off the goddamn boat, Sherlock."

John stops the zodiac's engine, letting it slowly sway on the waves. Sherlock is half-bent over the raft, not listening, apparently convinced that something is swimming around them.

"It's a shark!" he exclaims with much more excitement than John would have liked.

"Right-o," John says, standing up from the driver's seat to pull at Sherlock's collar, bringing him back to a safer perimeter.

Sherlock pushes John back in the chest with a blind hand before he leans in again, making the boat sway even more.

"No!" Sherlock says, "it's a— it's a—", he waves his hand for John to find the right word.

The animal's head emerges from the water, curious at such a strange display. "It's a seal," John completes. Definitely a seal.

"It's a seal!"

"Stand back, Sherlock, it will probably bite your nose off."

"No, it won't, it's a friend!"

"Right," John says, doubtful. "Puffins are friends, wild hares are friends, butterflies are _pretty_ friends, and that dog that nearly took your arm off on that island is a _fun_ friend too."

Sherlock is definitely a bit too liberal with the term _friend_ , or at least when it comes to animals. In the three weeks that John has known him, he's never called another human being his friend. _Enemies_ , though, enemies are numerous. Anderson and Sarah are both enemies, relegated to the same category as sparkling water, onions, loud sounds, and for reasons that John would rather not know about, his box of kleenexes.

"For God's sake!" John says, as he slowly turns the zodiac on itself so that he can get a better view of what's happening.

The seal is swimming in place, its head and shoulders above water, as it dubiously eyes Sherlock, who seems amazed. John can't say if it might be dangerous or not, but he would rather not discover it now, kilometres away from the shore. And it's certainly not the time for Sherlock to fall over and die of hypothermia. He is about to tell Sherlock to step back when he taps on the rubber edge of the zodiac with the palm of his hand. John frowns, and observes as Sherlock leans in even more, a few centimetres away from the animal's face, and puffs a breath of air at it.

The seal puffs back.

John stands amazed, watching them. Sure, Sherlock is a marine biologist, so it definitely means that he has some kind of experience with this, but he also nearly broke his neck the other day chasing puffins on slippery rocks, so John does not know at which point Sherlock actually knows what he is doing. He would like to snap a picture of it, but doesn't have a camera on himself. It's been a long time since the mobile Harry gave him stopped working. He only watches as Sherlock and the seal communicate back and forth with little puffs, wondering if the seal is taking offence at Sherlock's probably very bad seal language.

After a minute or two, Sherlock taps against the boat for a second time, and the seal swims away.

John leans back on his seat, behind the motorboat's wheel. "You know you're the craziest person I've ever met?"

Sherlock smiles back, probably thinking that craziest is the highest praise the English language is able to produce. "We should wait until it gets dark so we can observe the pol— jellyfish swimming to the surface."

John tries not to sigh. "We're not going to spend the night here, Sherlock, it's going to get stormy soon." The waves are already rising a bit higher, and John would rather not risk his fuel levels just to have a look at some kind of special type of jellyfish. He does not even know if they exist in the first place — he's never heard of them. Maybe Sherlock confuses jellyfish with some kind of very boring and small type of plankton that is invisible to the naked eye. "We've had a long day, anyway."

Sherlock shrugs and kneels down at the bow of the boat, head turned straight ahead so that John can't see his (obviously disappointed) expression. He looks like a figurehead, staring in the distance like that, curls bouncing from the strong wind and coat flapping around the small of his back, revealing a bit of dirt on the back of his trousers. John smiles at himself, remembering how the dirt got there in the first place, as they had rolled off the picnic blanket with other issues in mind than staying clean. Sherlock's sulk won't last anyway, he tells himself, and if it does, a cup of tea or a proper blowjob would do the trick. Not that it would be today's first round.

Since that dreadful day when John left Sherlock behind, they haven't talked about their relationship. They have simply carried on like before, except that now they have sex, sometimes multiple times per day. Nothing too elaborate, usually just their hands or John going down on Sherlock. Even though he had promised to _put his mouth on John_ one day, Sherlock has not reciprocated yet, and that is quite all right, too. He does not want to pressure him to do anything, especially because of his lack of experience. Anyway, Sherlock has been getting tremendously better, these past days, and John was more than satisfied.

When they are not in each other's arms at the lighthouse, they spend their days exploring around the coast and the few islands nearby. It makes John think about the times he used to hitchhike when he first got here, which he stopped doing as the winter grew colder and his motivation lessened. He still knows the best spots to walk, eat, and to Sherlock's greatest joy, watch animals and collect flora. It's been nearly two weeks, and Sherlock has already scratched every single inch of his body in brambles, been chased after a dog after grabbing a sheep to touch its fur, and has now successfully communicated with a seal.

For the first moment since he came back from the war, John Watson believes that he is happy, during the fleeting moments when he forgets the date on the calendar.

 

***

 

On the very same night, he is sitting in his armchair, listening to the news on the radio while Sherlock slurps at his tea in the kitchen, turning the pages of a book he cannot read. Everything is so comfortably domestic that John would like this moment to stretch forever. For them to stay in that little bubble in time, and for the world to be forever unaware of their presence, here, at the end of the world.

He is thrown out of his reverie when he feels a pair of hands on his shoulders, as Sherlock climbs on his lap, sticking each knee between John's legs and the armchair.

"Oof," John breathes out when Sherlock placates himself against him for a kiss, making his erection known by rubbing his bulge against John's.

Sherlock has never been someone for teasing foreplay, preferring to make his state known in less-than-subtle ways. It's not like John minds, and as always, Sherlock makes it up romance-wise during aftercare.

John kisses back, tasting a hint of tea in Sherlock's warm mouth, and slips his hand on his waist, his thumb contouring the edges of Sherlock's erection through his jeans.

"John," Sherlock moans, leaning in to kiss John's jaw, his hips kicking forward, seeking friction against John's palm.

He pushes his hand against him, mouth-watering, and wonders if this is going to be a quick hand job on the armchair, when Sherlock breaks the kiss. "You want to be inside me," he says, a finger trailing over John's stubbly jaw. He has not shaved in three days, and it's starting to show, but it's the first time Sherlock has expressed any interest about his facial hair.

John's cock twitches at the words. He stills his hand. He has thought about it, of course, but he did not want to rush Sherlock into anything, especially since he never expressed desire towards that kind of sexual act.

"I— yes," he says, because it would be a lie to deny it.

"Oh John," Sherlock sighs, "I'd like to, but you need to know that we can't reproduce."

John frowns, not understanding. Is Sherlock unsure because John has only been with women before? Does he fear he isn't good enough for John, when it comes to sex, because they can't have kids?

"I… know, I— Sherlock, you're not competing with anyone. I don't mind that you're not a woman, and even then I'm not sure I'd be ready to have kids. I just want you. I want you as you are, if you feel the same."

Sherlock's concerned gaze transforms into a smirk. "Kiss me, then, John Watson."

He does as he is told, capturing Sherlock's lips with his own, his hand slightly tugging at his curls. John slips his left hand back down again and fumbles at the zip, his now experienced hand letting Sherlock's hard cock jut out of them. No pants. Sherlock grins mischievously at him, while he encircles his waist with one arm, pulling him closer until he's properly sitting on his lap. They stare at each other, kissing altogether forgotten, and John imagines how it would be for Sherlock to ride him on that chair, in that same exact position, their eyes locked together. To bounce on his cock, seeking his own pleasure, prevented from falling backwards only by the strength of John's arms. How that armchair would grit on the floor, forwards and back, forwards and back, again and again.

Maybe not for his first time, though.

He tugs Sherlock's jumper over his head, letting it fall to the floor, and starts working on the buttons of his own shirt when Sherlock puts both hands on John's knees and arches his back, playfully smearing the leaking tip of his erection over John's stomach.

"Hang on," John mumbles into another kiss, swallowing Sherlock's hiss when he gets his hand around his cock. _So_ sensitive.

Sherlock is already kicking his hips forwards, slowly fucking into John's fist, his arse rubbing at John's thighs. Enough — if they want to continue in the direction that they have commonly decided on, they need to make it to the bed. John spreads his legs under Sherlock, placing his hands underneath his thighs, and with a bit of effort, stands up.

"John!"

Sherlock grabs unto John's shoulders, his feet locking together in John's back. He steps towards the bed, and more or less lets them both stumble on it in a heap of limbs. Sherlock laughs under him, and then John is kissing him again, sucking on the skin of his throat where laughter is transformed into a moan.

He lets him sit up, doing a quick job of his trousers, socks and pants while Sherlock kicks his jeans off. When John turns to face him, Sherlock is reclined on his elbows, staring apprehensively at John's erection.

Right. John retrieves the lube, stuck somewhere between the mattress and the wall, and warms it a bit between his fingers before reaching for Sherlock's cock. Sherlock looks down, licking his lips, before his eyes lock with John's for the second time. He strokes him slowly, teasingly, until he can hear Sherlock's ragged breathing in the air between them. He leans in for a kiss, and Sherlock licks into his mouth, already uncoordinated.

John lets go of Sherlock, sliding his hand further down, insinuating his finger between the soft crease of Sherlock's arse, going down at the same time to take the head of his cock into his mouth.

He looks up and Sherlock silently nods, still perched on his elbows, his belly contracted. John pushes his finger through the tight ring of muscles, and Sherlock yelps so intensely that John pulls his mouth off, unsure if he's about to come or not.

"All right?" he asks.

"It surprised me. Do it again."

John smiles, and pushes his finger back in, until his third knuckle catches unto the rim, his other hand running soothing circles on Sherlock's flank. When he is sure that Sherlock is comfortable, he slips a second finger inside. It takes a while for this second adjustment, Sherlock breathing heavily but proudly not backing off. With a smile on his face, John curves his index.

Sherlock moans, his head falling back between his shoulders, teeth gripping at his lower lip. "What did you—"

"Found your prostate," John answers, thrusting his fingers in earnest, hitting that same spot every time.

"Inside, now!"

"Okay, just let me…" He removes his fingers, making Sherlock groan with dismay, and quickly coats his cock with lube. "Tell me if you want me to stop," he says, sitting between Sherlock's legs.

Sherlock does not seem quite sure about how to position himself, and so John reaches for his calves, lifting them over his own legs. He takes his cock in hand — it's so hard from seeing Sherlock writhing under him that it barely needs to be guided when he slides inside.

John exhales, trying to control himself and not lose his load right here and now at the feeling of Sherlock's thight heath surrounding him. He keeps on pushing, vaguely aware of Sherlock's whitening knuckles clenching at the sheets, wanting more of that delightful friction. It's both warmer and tighter than a woman, and entirely different. How did he _never_ know?

His hips finally meet with Sherlock's body, and he takes a moment to calm his breathing, to regain control over himself. "All right?" he asks. He lets go of Sherlock's waist to slide a thumb over his reddened cheek, worried at the water accumulating in his eyes. "Sorry, is this hurting?"

"No," Sherlock bites out through gritted teeth. "It feels… odd."

"How?"

John can feel Sherlock's internal muscles contracting around him, as if trying to gauge the intrusion. "It feels… highly uncomfortable, but I also don't want for us to part ever again."

They smile at each other, as if they're sharing no more than a sweet moment, John's hands squeezing Sherlock's thighs. "Relax a bit, it will feel better," he says, but Sherlock looks at him, frowning, with a stare that clearly means _what do you mean, I am entirely relaxed_.

Which is not how it feels, at least from John's perspective, whose life is being squeezed out of him. He changes his strategy, dropping down on his elbows and carefully leans to catch Sherlock's lips into a sweet kiss. This is Sherlock's first, he reminds himself, he needs to be patient. Sherlock's lips are warm, still bearing that hint of tea, as he grows much more interested in the whole ordeal. His hands travel on John's back, squeeze his arse, go back to his arms, his neck. More so than their first time together, John feels wholly his. There is not a single thing he would refuse to that man, and in that way, it's Sherlock who is in control of the situation. John would never do anything that might hurt him.

He sucks on Sherlock's tongue, the kisses becoming wet and sloppier. Sherlock's cock pushes in his hand as he closes his fist around it, and it hardens again under John's light strokes, just like Sherlock enjoys them. John can't help but gently rock his hips, seeking friction. It's Sherlock who first breaks the kiss, his eyes dark with arousal.

"Move, now," he pants, encircling John's back with his arms and hiding his face in his neck.

John grunts as he thrusts back, nearly slipping out of Sherlock before he kicks his hips forward again, in a long, steady push, just to make sure. Sherlock hisses, blowing air against John's shoulder, tingles running down his spine as Sherlock's fingertips mark his skin. He closes his eyes, losing himself in the sensation, in Sherlock's quick exhalations, in the soft whimpers he is trying to contain.

"You feel so fucking good, you know that?"

It's a rhetorical question, but it makes Sherlock drop his head back on the pillow and smile, pleased. John leans in to smear their mouths together, and now sure that he won't hurt him, kicks his hips forward. Sherlock cries out, pleasure washing over his face, his eyes crunched closed and his lovely mouth half-open, the sign that John was waiting for, to start fucking him in earnest.

He starts with quick, sharp thrusts, that he slowly elongates as he wants to last a bit more.

"Oh— John— like that!" Sherlock lets out, just as his arse is rippling from the smack of John's hips.

"You like that, don't you? When I fuck you _hard_."

This time, Sherlock does not smile. A blind hand flies to John's hair, pulling. "Yes!" Sherlock answers feverishly, something John had not expected him to admit out loud.

He grips Sherlock by the waist, pulling out as much as he can, before he steadily thrusts back in, slamming home at the last moment. _Uuuuh— oh!_ Sherlock lets out, again and again as John fucks him hard, hitting the right spot every single time.

_Uuuuh— oh!_ _Uuuuh— oh!_ _oh! oh! oh! OH!_

It surprises them both, as neither of them are touching his cock but Sherlock is nonetheless coming all over him himself, clenching all over John's cock. "Oh, that's fucking sweet," he lets out, hands slipping on Sherlock's thighs from the sweat, as he tries to get a better grip on him. He fucks him gently through his orgasm, wondering what the exact etiquette is in this situation. Will Sherlock be too sensitive to let him finish inside of him?

"Sherlock, can I—"

"Yes, yes, just… please!"

John drops on his elbows, getting better leverage by grabbing Sherlock behind his neck, his shoulders. Their eyes lock, as it's John turns to selfishly take, slamming into Sherlock with quick harsh thrusts, letting go entirely. The sensation starts deep down in his balls, and just when Sherlock's fingers fist in the short strands of his hair that he drops his face to his neck, thrusting so hard that the bed makes a racket against the wall, until his hips jam against Sherlock's arse, spilling into him and even then it seems to never end.

When he forces his eyes to open again, he doesn't know how many seconds have passed, only that he is collapsed on top of Sherlock, both of them breathing hard. Sherlock is playing with his hair, as he always does, and hums his little tune with enthusiasm, as if he can't contain the happiness inside him.

"Holy—" John starts, feeling his hips moving on their own accord in the aftershocks of his orgasm.

"Get off, now," Sherlock commands, but it's gentle.

John smiles and pops on his elbow with a kiss to Sherlock's nose, letting his softening cock slip out of him.

"What happened to us _never parting ever again_?" John teases him, running his finger through the dark curls.

"We can try that next time." John rolls on his side, and Sherlock waves their fingers together. "I've come to realise that I wasn't very good to you that first time." He sounds a bit guilty, a bit embarrassed.

John chuckles, not at all bothered. "Nobody ever is during their first time. But I wouldn't say it was _bad_."

Sherlock hums, his eyes already closing. "I do prefer it this way 'round."

For an answer, John kisses the side of his head, watching Sherlock's profile until he is sure that he is sleeping. He gets on his feet and fetches the cloth that is hanging in its usual place. He returns to the bed and gently cleans his sleeping lover, passing the material over his belly, between his thighs, careful not to wake him. Sherlock mumbles sometimes John doesn't catch, and when he finally lies down on the bed, Sherlock snuggles instinctively closer to him, resting his head on his shoulder.

They could stay like that forever, John thinks, in a post-coital haze. This could be his everyday life, waking up beside the man is he going to bed with at night. Every single day of his life blessed by Sherlock's presence. More experiments on the shore, more running around after animals, more seeking out jellyfish in the middle of the sea.

Nobody would need to know, about their little secret. About the warmness that drowns John from the inside each time his eyes lock with Sherlock's. About the sweet promises whispered when they are holding each other skin to skin. Nobody needs to know about the man beneath the soldier and the doctor.

Only Sherlock. Only here.

No need to worry about the six days remaining between now and the next full moon. No need to worry about asking Sherlock if he would be interested in staying here, forever. No need to worry about the world if it eventually discovers them. No need to worry about the facade, crumbling before Harry, Sarah, Murray.

Nobody needs to know, nobody can see how bright the light shines from within the tower.

Next time, they will never part, ever again.

(For only six more days.)

 

***

 

_Next time_ never comes. It is stopped right in its track, ripped at the roots before it even has a chance to grow into a possibility. Sherlock grows agitated with every passing hour, and not even a nice cup of tea can make him stop clawing at the sides of his neck, where an inexplicable inflammation has flared up in his old scars. He has trouble walking up the stairs, his knees a mess, and spends as much time as he can naked, bothered by the fabric of the clothes making his skin itch. Each time John offers to take a look at him as a doctor, Sherlock recoils, and John keeps on pretending that he doesn't know what's happening.

At night, they cling to each other in the small bed, both of them pretending to sleep. John counts the minutes down to the moment that Sherlock will have to leave. He won't come back, this time, a voice tells him at the back of his head.

John wakes up in the middle of the night. He extends his arm, touching the still-warm duvet that was just covering them. The bed is empty. He raises his head, confused. They had been in each other's arms just when John had fallen asleep.

"Sherlock?" he asks out loud, jerking in a sitting position.

He is not in the room. The wind gushes through the opened door.

John stands up, putting on the pair of jeans and the jumper he was wearing earlier. He hurries outside, still struggling to get one arm through the right sleeve.

Sherlock is there, a naked silhouette highlighted by the moonlight, standing in the sand and staring at the sea in front of him. John lets out a sigh of relief. He walks outside, forgetting his shoes, not even minding the tiny rocks that encrust themselves under his foot as he makes his way on the shore.

"Sherlock?" he asks again, a few metres behind him, now.

Sherlock does not turn his head, and that, above all, worries John. Why can't he simply _look_ at him? "I— I can't breathe, John. I have to go back."

John chuckles, in a high-pitched tone he does not recognise as his. "Stop that. Come back to bed," he orders, stepping forward. "You'll catch a cold, like that."

He tries to close his hand over Sherlock's wrist, who tugs his arm away. "I have lied to you." His voice is so small. And he still _won't look_.

"No, you haven't." God, this can't be true. Anything, anything but _this_! "Come back home."

"I am going home. I have no more time, here. She wants me back. Maybe I should have told you from the start… I shouldn't have lied to you. There's— there's no boat, John."

"I know, I know, you haven't lied, I know who you are, I— _oh_ ," he lets out, when Sherlock finally turns on himself.

What used to be the thin scars on his neck are now deep cuts where his skin is raised. Gills. His pupils dilated. It is true, then, Sherlock is— a monster. Something out of a fairytale book. Maybe this was all a trick, a trick to lure John in, maybe that's how they _hunt_. John takes a step back.

Upon seeing the look of horror on John's face, Sherlock gasps, falling back in the sand as if his knees have given under him. He turns quickly on himself, and then up again, running towards the waves.

Fuck! "Sherlock!" John calls him, instantly regretting his first impression. Fuck, this is Sherlock, not some kind of sea creature! Only Sherlock! He was so human, he is so human… He can be human. That's all that matters. John needs him to.

He sets off after Sherlock, who is already waist-deep among the waves. The water is cold, and it nearly freezes him on the spot when his feet enter in contact with the rising tide. He needs to— he needs to get to Sherlock. He can't let him go away!

"Sherlock!" he calls again, and this time, Sherlock listens and turns to face him, water lapping at his collarbones, hands flying to his neck, to hide that part of him that John saw just now. John swims towards him, his heavy clothes making him slow. "Sherlock, please listen to me," he starts, having no idea how to follow through.

"No, you don't know me," Sherlock says, "it's a trick, you say you know me, but you are afraid of me."

John winces, unable to prove him wrong. He only wants to take Sherlock back in his arms, for them to return to the warmth of that little room in the lighthouse, to forget all about this. For Sherlock to be human again.

"Please, Sherlock, just— stay. Stay with me. Let's pretend that this never happened. There must be some way for you to—"

"There is." Sherlock's answer cuts him short.

Yes! That's good — they're making progress, right? In the right direction? Something brushes against his calf, but John is too afraid to look down. He would see nothing at all, the water is too dark anyway. "Tell me, then, please…"'

"There's this old—" Sherlock stops, and looks away. "I don't know what the words are, in your language, but I need you to say them."

When Sherlock's eyes lock with his, they nearly burn through John's skin. The words? Which words? Unless… "I— Sherlock. I can't. Anything but that, please. Anything but that!"

Sherlock smiles, and it is a sad, sad thing, as if he has known John's answer all along. "It's the only way."

"Sherlock, I'm sorry, but—"

"Farewell, then, John Watson."

"Sherlock, no!" John cries out, but Sherlock disappears underwater.

He steps forward, his arms forward, trying to see where Sherlock might have gone into the water. He must be still here, he must! There is no way anything like that is possible… The whole thing is impossible…

"Sherlock," he says again, softy, teeth clattering, his face wet, salt in his mouth from both the sea and his tears.

He can't do anything, the cold petrifying him, the current dragging him towards the shore as if it's doing him a favour. When he knows all cause is lost, John starts swimming towards the tower, eyes still roaming through the waves in search of a shadow that never shows.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... it gets worse before it gets better?
> 
> Check out this art made by the fantastic Arcwin, who is not only an amazing writer and beta, but an awesome artist as well! If you look carefully in the water, you might see something in there!
> 
> [](https://www.flickr.com/photos/155469010@N02/44952893535/in/dateposted-public/)   
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some things are answered.
> 
> Warning for homophobia, although there are no slurs in this chapter.
> 
> As always, thanks to my wonderful, wonderful beta Arcwin who saves my writing from dumb sentences like "she sent me a Christmas card at Christmas." She makes every fic she betas ten times better! <33

 

John wakes up.

He gets dressed, makes coffee, listens to the radio. Something about corruption in Eastern Europe.

He works all day long. Eats. Showers. Sits down and tries to write. Reads instead.

Goes to sleep.

Nightmares.

 

***

 

John wakes up.

He gets dressed, makes coffee, listens to the radio. Something about the opening of a new oil field just up north. Is Sarah's brother working there, again? He doesn't remember.

He works all day long. Eats. Showers. Sits down and tries to write. Reads instead.

Goes to sleep.

Nightmares.

 

***

 

John wakes up.

He gets dressed, makes coffee, listens to the radio. Something about an earthquake in Eastern Asia.

He works all day long. Eats. Showers. Sits down and tries to write. Makes tea. Dumps it in the sink. Has a drink instead.

Goes to sleep.

Nightmares.

 

***

 

John wakes up.

He gets dressed, makes coffee, listens to the radio. Something about the British Parliament debating a new anti-terrorist law.

He works all day long. Eats. Showers. Sits down and tries to write. Has a drink instead. Or two. Or three.

Falls on his bed.

Nightmares.

 

***

 

John wakes up.

Showers first. He gets dressed, makes coffee, listens to the radio. Something about a rock star performing in Edinburgh.

He works all day long. Eats. Showers. Sits down and tries to write. Has a drink instead. Or two. Or three. Or four.

Falls on his bed.

No nightmares, this time.

 

***

 

John wakes up.

He nearly falls off the bed doing so, catching himself at the last second. His mind is blissfully blank. No nightmares during the night, then, although his headache is strong. God, how many drinks did he have last night?

He rubs his hands over his eyes, grunting. Still, the lack of nightmares is something new. The last time John had a peaceful night of sleep was when… well, when someone was sleeping beside him. Which was definitely not the case yesterday.

He showers first, to make the horrible smell of alcohol go away, makes coffee and listens to the radio. Something about calm weather for the next few days.

It's not particularly good news. Storms, at least, occupy his mind. He throws a cloth on his shoulder and enters the staircase, about to make his way upstairs when he hears a music coming from the small window that he has held half-open during the night to get some fresh air. _Classical_ music.

The window is too small to see anything, and soon enough John is outside, precariously walking on the big rocks going down into the water. He finally sees the source of it: a portable radio left on a rock, at the bottom of the cliff. He gets down there, careful not to slip, and once he reaches the radio, turns it off.

John looks around, and the smile on his face melts away. Of course there is no one there. Yet he can't chase away the image of the swimming creature transporting a radio above water. Where the hell he would have found it in the first place?

John leaves it there, and climbs the rocks back to the tower.

 

***

 

During the next few nights, music plays, soothing John every time he wakes up from a nightmare.

It has been two weeks since his guest had left when he decides to make the journey to the village. His food rations are getting low, which can quickly become dangerous should a storm take hold of the lighthouse for a few days. Not to mention that he is also bored out of his mind, working on things that hardly matter anymore.

When his old truck finally reaches the village, he goes first to the grocery, which fortunately lacks of Anderson's presence at the fish counter. He had been hostile towards John the last time, even when he was without Sherlock. Go figure.

When he is done with the shopping, he parks his car just in front of the clinic.

"Well, look who's finally stopping by!" Sarah greets him with a warm smile and a kiss on each cheek, her stethoscope catching in John's coat. Just out of the examination room, then. "I need to go back in again," she says, grabbing a new box of gloves under her desk. "But do look up the voice mails, your friend called three days ago."

She disappears through the door, leaving John befuddled. Sherlock called him? But… now? He gets to the phone, fingers trembling as he types in the code to access the voicemails.

He can't hide his surprise, nor the piercing feeling in his stomach, when he hears Murray's voice for the first time in months.

" _Hey, Johnny boy! I hope I'm calling at the right place — you should get a mobile, you know, to join the rest of the world in the twenty-first century? I'm kidding, mate, I'm only kidding. I hope you're doing well? I've got great news! You'll never believe it: Lei and I just had a baby girl! July 24_ _th_ _, literally ten minutes before midnight, 4.2 kilos if you want all the statistics. Ju Lei Elizabeth Murray is her full name. Man, I'm in heaven right now, I can't even believe it! I remember telling you how much I'd like to propose to Lei once I'd get my leave, and look at me now, not only married but also a father. Anyway, I'm rambling! We're throwing a party to welcome little Ju in the family, on July 31_ _st_ _, and you're obviously invited to join us, Johnny boy, if you'd like to leave the pit of the world for a few days of fun with us mortals. I have to go, so many people to call, but— Jesus, Johnny, me, a father! Do call back as soon as possible, and hope to see you soon!_ "

John slowly lets the phone down unto the desk, a smile creeping up on his face. Relief washes over him, dissolving the stone buried deep in his guts, making his vision strangely blurry. Above all, he's happy to _be_ happy for his mate. Murray's voice isn't associated with John's own bitterness, his self-pitying. It's simply his voice, in that message. Nothing more. John feels oddly proud of himself.

He presses on the phone to call back, his hand trembling, fervently hoping that both of them would be out at this time of the day. They are: after a few beeps, Lei's voice asks him to leave a message.

He breathes in, and goes on a small monologue about how it's such wonderful news, apologising that he won't be able to make it to London under such short notice, but that he nonetheless gives his love to the family. Truly, it's what Murray deserves: a wife, a kiddo, a quiet life in the suburbs when he won't be fighting for his life and saving people in the desert.

When he puts the phone down for the second time, he can only think of Sherlock.

"So, no news from Harry, then?" Sarah asks him after stepping into the room, precisely timed.

"No, just an old friend, as you've said."

"Really? I thought it might be Sherlock."

John opens his mouth, ready to reply, when the patient in the examination room pushes the door open. "Sherlock? Is that what you named it?" Anderson sneers, donning his stupid hat on his stupid head.

John takes a step forward. And to think that he was lucky not to run into him at the grocery store. "That's _his_ name, yes." He turns to Sarah. "And no, it was another friend, from the army."

"A _friend_ ," Anderson keeps going, his tone accusatory. "Don't pretend like you don't know where it came from, and that you haven't fallen for it. It sure takes one of them to turn a proper man gay."

"Anderson!" Sarah shouts. "Stop it with your silly fables and get out of—"

She is cut short when John grabs him by the collar, slamming him into the nearest wall.

"John!"

Anderson only smiles at him. "If you want my opinion, that monster belongs in hell, and you with it if you're shagging it in that old tower of yours. Don't think I've forgotten about that night — you cost my uncle a year’s worth of salary and a broken nose."

"Good thing nobody here wants your opinion, you piece of shit, and I have no idea what you're talking about. Sherlock left days ago, and whatever you're implying, I'm not gay."

He slams him one more time against the wall, punctuating the end of his sentence, wondering how _Anderson_ would look like with a broken nose.

"John," Sarah warns him again, and John finally lets go, not before hurling him towards the door.

Anderson stumbles forward, his hand landing on the doorknob. "Fair warning, Watson: it'll drag you back to the water before you can even understand what's happening to you."

"Fuck off!"

The door slams behind him, making the Open/Close sign fall from the window. "Jesus," Sarah lets out. "What was that about?"

"I have no bloody idea. He seems convinced that Sherlock is some kind of sea beast whose mission was to seduce me or something like that."

 _Seduced_ him. John closes his eyes, remembering the last time he had used the word in Sherlock's presence, who had freaked out, thinking it meant something else. Maybe Sherlock did use some tricks on him, at least at the start? But Sherlock said he had not, looking absolutely panicked at the mere thought of it. Does it mean that he could have? Maybe he was trying to lure John into the depths of the sea, only at the beginning, just to be stopped by… what, exactly?

Not that it explains Murray, again. No, of all people, John is not going to believe bloody Anderson!

"Are you all right?" Sarah's words bring him back to the present.

"Yes, yes, of course, I'm fine," he says, with a small smile.

"I hope you don't mind me saying that, but you look… like you always do." She leans on the counter in front of him, worried.

He chuckles. "Thanks for the compliment?"

"John," she says, serious. "You look like an old man trapped in a younger body, whose job is tending to a lighthouse no one has use for anymore."

"And?"

"My point is that you didn't look like that, a month ago, when you were with him."

John's face goes slack. Has it really shown that much? "Listen, Sarah, you know that—"

"No, you listen, John, for once in your life," she cuts him off, although it's not aggressive. "I don't care if you're straight, gay, bi, or just not interested, but it was nice to see that you had a friend. Just… someone to care about. To talk with. You never see anyone anymore, and I know you think I only say that because I hate that old lighthouse, but I don't think it does you good. You need to be with people, from time to time, and it shows: you looked happy, with him."

John licks his lips, hand contracting over his thigh. "He left. He had to leave. I—"

"Yes?"

"I asked him to stay. It's complicated," he breathes out, looking up, hoping that she hasn't opened some kind of dam inside him that will start pouring itself out without being able to stop. He really can't explain how he has fallen in love with someone who has a tail for legs. Christ. He sounds as mad as Anderson.

"Ring him, then, and let him explain himself. Or explain yourself, whatever the situation is."

John lets out an ironic chuckle. As if it could be that simple. Ringing Sherlock. He might have more luck screaming at the ocean. "Sarah? Do you believe Anderson?"

"About what?"

"His… theory, that there are… people who come from the sea?"

Sarah's eyebrows rise just under her fringe, as she links her fingers together. "Not to excuse his actions, but you know that his father died when he was young, right? They were at sea and were caught in a bad storm, and Philip was the only one to make it back to the shore. It's a natural thing for a child to create an explanation that they understand better when it comes to a source of trauma. What is less… usual, is to keep on believing it after growing up. And I'm saying this to you because you're a doctor and you're not going to blab about it, but I've always suggested to him that he should seek professional help. He never did."

John clears his throat, wondering how far he can go. "Yes, of course, but it isn't exactly… impossible, isn't it? I mean, the oceans are big and still mostly unexplored. There might be things in there that we still don't know about—"

Sarah cuts him off with a laugh. She suddenly reminds him of the officers at the end of Life of Pi, not believing the story of the young boy who spent all this time in proximity with a dangerous animal. ( _But if the story explains that the boy found ways not to be eaten, then it's not entirely impossible, only improbable. And an improbable story can be true,_ Sherlock's voice supplies in his mind. Well _now_ John gets his point.)

"Oh, John! You sound just like my aunt, going on about mermaids or krakens and whatnot."

"Your aunt?"

"Did I never tell you about her? She's a bit weird, if you want my opinion, but nothing like Anderson. She lives at Bonar Bridge. I used to visit her when I was only a kid, before my parents cut off contact with her. I loved her as a child — she's very grandmother-y, although I haven't seen her in years. She usually sends a Christmas card, but that's all."

John shakes his head. "No, you never told me about her."

"She lives in the house at the end of the main road, just in front of the bay, if ever you want a two-hour lecture on fairies."

"Thank you, but I'll pass," he says, nonetheless registering the information. "I have to go back now, have some fish to put away before it gets too hot in the car."

He fiddles with his keys just as Sarah asks him if he'd like to join her at the pub on Saturday. This time, he says maybe. Maybe he does not need to be so alone all the time.

 

***

 

Two days later, John is making the two-hour drive to Bonar Bridge, down south. His hands are moist on the car wheel, glancing in his mirror every ten seconds as if the rare cars that sometimes appear on the road are following him. The pendant he is wearing under his shirt swings against his skin every time there is a turn in the road.

He remembers finding it in that box under his bed just before Sherlock had appeared in his life. It had entirely left his mind during the three idyllic weeks that had followed, but then this morning, as he was cleaning the room, the broom he was sweeping under his bed had caught on the box. He reopened it and took a look at an old army photograph where he was standing with his men. His eyes were stuck on the smiling Murray, slightly blurred because he had been moving at the time. Just before he proposed to his girlfriend. John smiled. Of all the horrible things that happened over there, Murray got his chance to get back home and bring a wonderful little girl to the world.

He was just about to put the box back when his eyes caught on a flash of scintillating deep blue, the little piece of shell he had worked into a pendant all those years ago. The night he saved Sherlock. Carefully, he examined it closer, tracing with his finger the rough edges of the blue shell, the smooth face of it. A scale. A single fish scale, and he was now sure of it.

He needed answers.

He turns towards Bonar Bridge, relishing the beautiful sight of the bay. Even the village is pretty, so full of life that John has to slow down when he sees a gang of kids playing footie and laughing on a patch of grass, just beside the road. A bit further down the road, people are talking in front of a small library, visibly some kind of local publishing event. Nothing like boring old Dunnet.

He remembers Sarah's directions and continues down the main road until he sees the old house down near the bay.

Thinking back about how Sarah had presented her aunt, John had in mind the image of a witch living in a hut elevated on chicken legs, skulls planted at the entry of her path to dissuade strangers like him from ever coming close. It's the entire opposite: the house is old but well-kept, with a flowery garden and vines growing on the white walls. From here, he can even see lacy curtains floating at the open windows.

He parks the car down the road and walks up to the house. He knocks on the door before he can think about what he is going to say, exactly. Nothing happens for a minute or two, enough for him to wonder if he should turn back and leave when he can, but the door finally opens.

A little old lady smiles at him.

"Er— I'm John Watson," he says, having completely forgotten that he actually doesn't know her name. "I'm Sarah's friend?" he tries instead. He doesn't even know if Sarah ever mentioned him — it seemed like she had very little contact with her aunt.

"Oh, John!" the lady says, as if she suddenly recognised a lifelong friend. "Yes, Sarah told me a thing or two about you when she rang a few months back. Nice to meet you. Well, do come in," he adds, waving at him to get inside. "Mrs Hudson, by the way, I know dear Sarah doesn't mention me very often."

John smiles, not wanting to confirm that Sarah seldom talks about her aunt. He does not even know why she would say Mrs Hudson is weird, she seems like a delightful grandma. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," he says and steps inside.

After having got his shoes off, he follows her in the kitchen. Everything is pristine clean, and it smells amazing: something is baking in the oven.

"Tea?" she asks, as she is already pouring some in the cup in front of him.

"Please."

"So," Mrs Hudson says, turning on her heels after putting the kettle back in its place. "What kind of trouble are you in, John?"

He laughs. "What do you mean?"

"Only asking why you're here. People tend to visit me when they're in trouble. Do you always look like that?"

Okay, maybe she _is_ a witch. All of these jam jars could be magic potions, for all he knows. "Like what?"

"Like you've been run over three times by a truck?"

John glares at her, although it's clear she is only teasing. Still, she is the second one in a few days to mention how bloody miserable he looks. For an answer, John reaches underneath his shirt and pulls out the pendant. He holds it in his fist, letting the scale at the other end bob in the air.

The smile on Mrs Hudson's face fades suddenly, only to reappear a second later, even stronger.

"I see," she says.

She turns his back on him, and for a moment John thinks that that's it. She won't help him. Maybe she can't. He should leave already.

She goes to open a drawer and fumbles inside it, only to retrieve a small object that John can't see. He wonders what exactly she is thinking, her shoulders going down in a silent sigh.

Finally, she turns, holding out an old ring with what seems to be a ruby embed in it. When he gets a closer look, he sees that the stone is in fact flat, and that its shiny surface resembles the scale on his necklace.

He gapes.

"How did you—"

"It's a long story. How did _you_?" Mrs Hudson counters as she sits down at the table, fingers reaching for the necklace that John has put down.

"It's a long story too," John says, only because he's unsure he should tell it first.

"Good thing that we have a lot of time, then, and plenty of tea." Mrs Hudson smiles and John knows better than to argue with her. She is still looking at the necklace, and he can see that she approves of it, that she knows the scale is a real one.

"Years back, just before I was stationed in Afghanistan, I came with a bunch of friends just a bit north of here. We partied on the beach and I drank so much I fell asleep in the sand. When I woke up, I found one of these in the sand, and kept it as a souvenir. I knew it was special, but I couldn't remember why exactly."

"And now you do?"

John nods. "I had a dream, not long ago. It was the same beach, the same night, except that this time I was conscious, and hearing noises… cries. I went to investigate, and found fishermen dragging one of their catches in the sand, and it was big enough for it to be a seal, or a shark, something like that. It's only when I got closer that I realised that the… creature had hands, and a chest. It thought they were somehow kidnapping someone, and fought them off and freed… him. I know now that it wasn't only a dream, that it does explain where… this came from."

"You wore it without his consent?" Mrs Hudson says, frowning.

"I— what?"

"This is not a toy, John, nor a common piece of pretty jewellery. It holds deep… tradition, if you're searching for any other word than magic. But you wouldn't be here only for the dream, which you already understand. What happened since then?"

John's hand clenches on his thigh. He's not sure if he should tell her. She would be the first to know, but she doesn't seem likely to judge — about the _mer_ man and the mer _man_.

"I saw him again, after ten bloody years. I keep the lighthouse at Dunnet, and he washed up on the shore just before that big storm in June. He was… very human. Normal-looking. With legs and all. A bit weird about some things inside the house. I guess I should have understood sooner," he reflects, his hand on the back of his neck. "Maybe I did not want to think about it. He stayed with me until the storm cleared, and then some more," he says, not sure if Mrs Hudson will understand what is implied.

Mrs Hudson's smile fades away. "He left on the full moon, didn't he?" Her voice is sorrowful, her eyes full of empathy, and John is convinced that she knows more than she lets show.

"How do you know?"

Mrs Hudson stands up again, reaching for the same drawer. "You have that look shared by all people who were left behind."

When she turns around, she hands John an old sepia photograph of two young women standing in a field. Both of them are wearing summer dresses and smiling at the camera, their hands linked together. They could have been sisters, John thinks, sharing that kind of amused look people have when they're both thinking about the same thing, usually laughing at someone else, except that they don't look much alike. One is a lot taller, her wavy hair light brown, or maybe ginger, John can't say. The other is blond, with blue eyes. Both of their expressions are slightly blurred from the movement, making it hard to distinguish the expressions on their faces.

"I had a friend in your situation, a long time ago," Mrs Hudson says. "We grew up together in the same village, and she was always a bit of a free spirit. I admired her for that, but she married young to a man that grew to be awful to her. I remember how she would take every opportunity to stay away from him, and so she used to go swimming at night, since she always loved the water. And then, this one night, she met this young woman." Mrs Hudson points at the girl with the wavy hair. "Except that she wasn't a woman, because she did not have legs, but a tail. She called herself a _Ceasg_ , and we called her a mermaid. They quickly became friends, as they used to swim together every night, until the day that the mermaid appeared on the beach walking on two legs."

"What happened?"

"My friend and her escaped to higher lands, not far from here, actually, where this picture was taken. The same day this ring was given to my friend as a testament of their shared love."

"I don't understand," John says. "They got… married? At the time? Your friend had a husband, right?"

"Oh, yes, but he had _mysteriously_ drowned a year prior, when he discovered that his wife had run off with another. To answer your other question, yes, they got married. Or at least as much as they could at the time. Why not?"

John frowns. "That doesn't explain the full moon thing at all."

"Right. Well, I did learn about it, and directly from her— Eileen was her name. I think it's something of a legend that they half-believe themselves. It's a saying, an old superstition that should a Ceasg fall in love with a human, their tail would transform into a pair of legs until the next full moon, before which they would have to make the human love them back. It takes a verbal declaration to make them stay in their human form forever. Which happened to my friend, and unfortunately, not for you."

John gapes. Is Mrs Hudson implying that Sherlock was in _love_ with him? Before they even met properly? How could that have happened? Sure, John had saved his life that night on the beach, but it can't be the only thing that spurred such sentiment. No, it's impossible. Sherlock may be quiet and self-controlled about his feelings, but it would have shown, at least before their first night together.

"What happened to your friend?" he asks, the words slow in his mouth.

Mrs Hudson looks down. "They lived happily for a few years before her wife got sick and died. My friend was never the same since, and passed away a few years later. The link between these two was strong, and I think that this ring had something to do with it. You see, in Ceasg tradition, once you have found the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, they exchange their scales, which can reattach to the other's tail, as to always carry a piece of their partner with them. It's the equivalent of marriage, for them. I wonder what role this played in the equation," she says, pointing to the necklace. "Only a significant other would get to wear it. If it was taken without the original bearer's knowledge, it might have linked you both sooner than you thought."

"I see," John mutters, not seeing anything at all. Does it mean that Sherlock did not like him? That he was only an unwilling prisoner as John had dug the necklace out? Maybe it was always more about that link than any kind of feeling Sherlock might have had for him. Does it make everything better, or worse?

"I really don't know what to do," he says, defeated. This discussion may have enlightened a few things, it also complicated everything tremendously. From what Mrs Hudson is saying, he won't get a second chance at this. God, he fucked up, didn't he?

Mrs Hudson leans over the table, patting his arm. "It's never too late, John. I'm sure your sweetheart is still around."

"Yes but… it's complicated, isn't it?"

It's not exactly like he can find Sherlock, and even if he does, then what? It would be impossible to carry a relationship like that, their worlds entirely separate.

Mrs Hudson raises her head, and John feels her blue eyes staring straight at him. "Is it because you're afraid of loving the creature, or the man?"

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if I say that we'll be finally meeting mer!lock in the next chapter? :P


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After all this time, we finally meet him!

The waves are breaking against the rocks with considerable force, nearly taking with them the old portable radio perched a bit higher than usual. It's playing some piece of classical music John does not recognise, as the slow rhythm calms the beating of his heart. His fingernails graze against the rock, as his gaze is steady over the ocean in front of him, searching for a presence between the waves. For a tangible proof that his has not been an incongruous dream from the start.

For the third night in a row, he sees nothing.

John sighs. It's been a week since his visit to Mrs Hudson, and even if it cleared up certain things, it confused his feelings even more. He is not sure if he wants to see Sherlock again. He is not sure if he could be able to stand it, the gills and the tail and the animalistic features. And he does not want to hurt Sherlock by being afraid in his presence. He is pretty sure Sherlock does not want to see him anyway.

The violin in the recording is slow and mournful. As much as Sherlock has no bearing over what is being played on the radio, John knows it sounds too much like heartbreak.

 

***

 

He would like to see him, John reflects, walking down to the shore. It will be soon August, now, and he longs to see Sherlock's face again. Whatever his transformation entails, he is willing to see through it. Just to make sure that he is doing fine. Yes. He would like to see him, out of concern for him. This shouldn't be so hard.

He stands on the sandy beach, scanning the horizon. "Sherlock?" he tries, but has no idea if he can be heard underwater. If Sherlock is even close enough to hear him. Or if he already took the decision to never come close, ever again, from the damned tower and its damned keeper.

Yet, each time John dreams, the radio plays.

Sherlock must be listening. He must be close.

John goes back inside, an idea burgeoning in his head. It's stupid, really, but it could be the one thing that might work. He puts the kettle on and makes a cup of Earl Grey, Sherlock's favourite. When he returns outside, he leaves the mug beside the radio, and sits back a bit further, like a hunter setting up his bait.

It's getting terribly cold, and after an hour, John decides to give up. He understands. He truly does. Sherlock has no reason to see him again. To want to be close to him again. Really, he understands.

 

***

 

In the morning, there is no more tea in the mug, yet John can't be sure if it was simply washed away by the waves.

 

***

 

On the second night, John leaves the mug again. When he wakes up, hours later, he checks on it and discovers that it's full of water, only confirming that the tea has been washed away, rather than drunk. Sighing, he takes the mug in his hand, and that's when he sees it: a small jellyfish swimming in it, a faint blue glow around its transparent body.

John jerks his chin back, and looks all around. No one. But that must be the polyp Sherlock kept talking about, the one that supposedly glows in the dark when it comes to mate at the surface of the water, a tale that John had believed to be an invention of Sherlock's lunatic mind. Well, _that_ proves him wrong.

He is tempted for a moment to keep it and put it in some sort of aquarium inside, just for the bit of company the jellyfish can bring, but that would not be his best idea. John smiles to himself and leans in to submerge the mug in the water, and watches as the jellyfish swiftly swims away. It's small, but it looks deadly.

John bites on his lower lip, the realisation dawning upon him. Laughter echoes on the water, as he imagines Sherlock hunting jellyfish only armed with a mug.

 

***

 

On the third night, John brings two cups of tea. He puts one down the rocks, and sits a bit further up the cliff on a blanket he has brought with him, the mug comfortably hot between his hands. He will wait all night if he must.

He doesn't have to.

Around midnight, a pair of hands appear on the slippery rock. John straightens his back, his breath stuck in his throat, as no one other than Sherlock pushes himself on the rock. As soon as their eyes meet, Sherlock lets himself fall back in the water.

"Sherlock!" John shouts, stumbling forward on a lower rock. Bloody hell, now he's frightened him! He waits a few seconds, anxious that Sherlock has swum away to never return.

After a moment, the long fingers appear again, followed by Sherlock's head, his hair wet and falling over his eyes. He carefully pushes himself upwards to be able to fold his elbows on the rock, and slicks back his hair. His gaze is wary, as if John is about to jump on him.

"Hi," John tries, unable to resist the smile growing on his face.

"Hello," Sherlock replies, and his deep voice makes John's stomach clench. God, how he's missed that _voice_.

He also looks exactly the same. His face, his arms, John recognises. He can't see the marks on his neck, and he instantly understands that Sherlock is hiding them away from him. Not to scare him, when it should be the other way around. He thinks about Anderson, about that night on the beach, and about how humankind has not always been very nice towards people like Sherlock. What was it again? Ceasgs?

Sherlock smiles back, although it's clear that he is trying to control himself. John's heart breaks a little. _This man is in love with me, and I don't know what I did to deserve it_.

Slowly, Sherlock unfolds his arms, and reaches for the mug in front of him. Now John can see his, well, his gills, and they somehow look a lot less impressive than on that first night. He lets his eyes roam over Sherlock's shoulders, his collarbone… Where exactly does his fish-like body starts? Whatever it looks like, Sherlock is consciously keeping it in the water, on the other side of the rock.

Sherlock raises the cup to his lips. _Sluuuuurp_.

John chuckles. Then laughs. He crosses his hands over his stomach, which is cramping so hard that it only makes him laugh more, filling his eyes with tears. God, there are some things that never change, he thinks. He never thought he would be happy to hear again that annoying noise. It takes him a minute to calm down, sniffing, and rubbing his hands over his eyes. He's with Sherlock now. He's with Sherlock and his stupid annoying habits and it's all that matters.

Sherlock is looking at him as if _he_ is the crazy one. "You're not angry," he says.

"No, of course not," he says, happy that it sounds truthful.

"But I have betrayed your trust."

"And if forgive you," John says, waving it off. He has spent to much time being an idiot about it. Who cares what Sherlock is? He knows him, for God's sake, he spent a month with the man. And he knows that his only desire is to keep him in his life. "Besides, I'm a damn idiot for not getting it sooner. Everybody knows how to use the bloody toilet, Sherlock," he adds, teasingly.

Sherlock lowers his head, mumbling a " _sorry."_

"Don't be."

They exchange looks, sipping at their tea in silence. When Sherlock is done, he pushes his mug towards John, and without a word, slips back into the water. It did not need saying, but John knows that he will be back.

 

***

 

Sherlock visits him every single night, now. They drink tea, mostly in silence, sometimes discussing various topics of mere importance. One night, Sherlock gets going excitedly about polyps, and he even promises John to show him, one day. This time, John agrees wholeheartedly.

Still, something fragile remains between them. They don't talk about the times that they would kiss, or share a bed. John can feel it floating between them, an elephant in the room, but by silent agreement neither of them speaks of it. There is one time when John asks Sherlock if he can see the rest of him, but Sherlock refuses. John bites the inside of his cheek, understanding the damage his negative reaction did on the transformation night. Yet Sherlock grows more and more comfortable around him, which makes him less careful, and once, John even sees a flash of Sherlock's behind, although it's too quick to properly distinguish the colour and texture of his scales.

After a week or so of late rendezvous, John finally gets a good view of Sherlock's body. He is sitting high on a large, flat rock, protecting himself from the rising tide. As always, Sherlock is slurping at his tea, but has more trouble staying on his elbows, the rock too high for him to reach properly from the water. After a few tries, John hears a distinctive sigh and Sherlock disappears into the water. For a moment, he's afraid that he has lost patience and simply decided to leave, but a second later, Sherlock erupts from the water and hoists himself on the rock, turning around in a quick spin so he can lie back on his elbows.

Sherlock does not say anything outright, as if daring John to remark on it first, as if showing himself is nothing out of the ordinary. But John knows that Sherlock is carefully watching his reaction, deducing if this is too much for him. He scolds his expression back to neutral — when it is more curious than anything, really — and continues to drink his tea as if nothing has happened. Soon enough, Sherlock's shoulders relax as he picks up his mug, and John finally lets his eyes wander.

The first thing that strikes him is that Sherlock's tail is long. It's proportionate to his body, but still, bigger and longer than John would have imagined. He can't see the end of it, tucked between two rocks, lapping at the water. In the darkness of the night, John guesses the colour to be something like dark blue: it is nearly black at his hips, where it starts in rough, dragon-like scales going up his sides, and they grow smaller, properly fishlike. The soft glow of the moon reflects on it, and what John thought was an effect of the light, he understands now that Sherlock's colour changes down the tip of his tail, where the scales are paler, silvery than blue. A set of fins adorns his hips, and they look terribly fragile, nearly transparent and sticking to his body now that they're out of the water. Above them, Sherlock's slender body, the one that John already knows, has not changed at all. He looks both ferocious, and utterly, utterly beautiful and elegant.

Not thinking, John extends his hand, touching a few scales at Sherlock's side where his legs should begin. Sherlock slaps his hand away. "Don't do that!"

John jerks back, instantly apologising. "Sorry, but… why?"

Sherlock shakes his head, deliberately not looking at him. Is he blushing? "It's… private."

John frowns. How can skin (or scales, in this instance) be private? Okay, maybe nobody is very keen on people just going ahead and touching them, but surely they are past that point? Even friends wouldn't be so reactive at a bit of physical contact.

"Are you saying that you never… touch one another? Just for a hug or anything like that?"

Sherlock chuckles. "We don't hug, John. And I wouldn't be the one to know." John opens his mouth, but Sherlock cuts him to the chase. "I've lived alone since I left my community."

"Your community?"

"Yes. Females, pips and the young ones live together. Males, like me, are chased off once we reach adulthood. We're expected to build a nest in order to attract females during mating season, every year."

John tries to register the information, but a plethora of new questions pops up in his mind. At least it's now clear that Sherlock is not coming from some kind of sect, or hippie community, and that he most certainly has not been abused as a child. Thank God. But if Sherlock has never been with anybody, and if mating season comes around every year… "Wait, are you saying that it's your first year outside of your community?" Surely Sherlock is not _that_ young.

Sherlock picks up the mug, his lips in a hard line. "No," he says between two slurps, "let's say that my nest is not the kind that attracts visitors."

John lets out a laugh. "Sherlock, not having any luck with the ladies, haven't you?"

He rolls his eyes, waving John off, although there is a small smile on his face. He knows that John is only teasing. "I don't care. Females aren't particularly enjoyable. It's more trouble than it's worth."

John's eyebrows go up. Is there something as gay mermen? Sherlock does not seem to be interested at all, not simply waving the subject off because he is embarrassed about his lack of luck. He thinks that females are not _enjoyable_. What does that mean?  "Are you scared of them?" John says teasingly.

To his surprise, Sherlock shrugs. "You'd be too. They're not very nice."

"All right, I believe you," he shrugs it off. He imagines a particularly large mermaid, more animal-like than human, aggressively trying to find a willing partner before the mating season ends. God, he wouldn't like it either, if it's like that. Are they like praying mantises, or that exotic kind of spider, the ones that eat the male after they're done? Rip his head off his shoulders? Okay, maybe not. But still. Does that mean the merm— Ceasgs do not experience love? No, they must, if what Mrs Hudson told him was true, with the scale exchange as marriage and all. Maybe it's a rare exception. From what he sees in Sherlock's case, Ceasgs, at least male ones, seem to live sad and lonely lives.

Sherlock does enjoy himself with John though, so he is obviously attracted towards men, or well, males. Do gay relationships exist in their world, too? From what John knows of the animal kingdom, males are not very kind to each other, more competitive than anything else. There must be exceptions, though, and it would be a bit close-minded to relegate Sherlock and his people to the animal kingdom. Well, aren't they all part of it, to some extent?

Above all, it means that Sherlock has never experienced sex as a merman. God, no wonders that he wasn't very good at it, at first. Sherlock did not know what kissing was, he had probably never seen it before. Or what to do with his human genitalia. His instincts were probably telling him to have sex like Ceasgs would, rather than humans. John would have been completely lost in his case. It all makes so much sense, now. How did he not understand sooner?

John lets his eyes trail again of Sherlock's body until his eyes catch on two small fins he had not seen before. They're a bit shark-like, starting at the front of his body, where… well, where his genitalia would be. He's not entirely sure if that's it, or if it's only covering something that is under it. He's not going to ask, that would definitely be _too_ private. Yet he can't help but wonder about it now, what it would be like, to be with Sherlock in that form. Are they completely different than humans? Does he have a… penis? A hole? Or is sperm transmitted through water or skin contact?

He realises that he's staring, and so he averts his eyes, his mind full of unanswered questions. He does not even know where to start.

After a while, Sherlock lets the empty mug down on the rock. "I have to go," he whispers, as if not wanting to completely wake John from his own thoughts.

He grabs Sherlock's wrist before he can move. That apparently is fine, compared to touching his scales. "Can you show me the rest of it?" he asks. "Please?"

Sherlock's eyes focus on him, concentrated, as if he is deliberating. After a long second, he nods. He leans back down on his elbows, and easily lifts the end of his tail in the air, making it come up nearly above John's head. As he had seen earlier, the dark blue truly fades to a soft silver towards the end of his tail, where two enormous fins are separated. Just like the ones at his hips, they look fragile, big and layered as they are, but it must look beautiful under water. Against the moonlight, John can see the little veins running through them. Droplets of water fall on his shoulder.

Sherlock lets his tail rest down. "Would you like to see it?"

"See what?"

"My nest," Sherlock says, his head cocked to the side, as if he can't retain the question any longer.

"God, yes."

"Not tonight, though."

John can't help but feel a bit disappointed, but he knows that Sherlock is right. It'll be morning soon enough.

"All right. See you tomorrow?"

"Yes. Goodnight, John Watson."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

 

***

 

John spends the following day trying to occupy his hands while his mind is entirely elsewhere. He keeps on imagining what Sherlock's nest must look like. Surely Sherlock does not expect him to simply dive underwater with him, even for a short period of time, since even in the summer the sea is too cold to swim in. Which means that the nest has at least one part of it above water, combining the best of both worlds, which makes sense. Is it a pound or something? A small island? Is it truly a nest like the ones birds do, with branches and marine flora making a cosy interior? He has no idea. Maybe Sherlock will have changed his mind tonight, he reminds himself, trying to keep his excitement under control. It's the first time in months that he has something to look forward to.

Unable to simply sit down and read a book, John gets on the shore an hour earlier than usual, until he spots Sherlock in the water, clearly as early and as keen as him.

"Get the boat," Sherlock says, from the water, "and I'll show you the way."

John does as he is told and climbs in the zodiac, keeping his eyes on Sherlock who starts to swim away. He watches him as he steers the motorboat towards the sea, careful as to not come to close but also not to lose sight of him. They don't go at full speed, and John is pretty sure that Sherlock can swim a lot faster, but he would rather not get lost in the middle of the ocean, at night.

After a good half-an-hour, he distinguishes a small rocky island that seems to emerge from nowhere. The shore they left behind is a thin line at the horizon, and John knows that they are not on the fishermen's regular working path. Everything is perfectly calculated.

Sherlock head pops out of the water and John stops the engines. "You can anchor it on the other side on the small beach. Watch out for the mud. When you get off, you'll see a hole between the biggest rock and the one on its left. You should be able to get inside from there."

John nods, and goes around the island just as Sherlock disappears, entering his nest from underwater.

As predicted, the boat gets stuck in the muddy water, and John has to take off his shoes to push the zodiac unto the beach, anchoring it to the nearest boulder he can find. The sea is calm, tonight, but he would rather not risk his lift back.

It takes him a moment to find the right entrance. It's small, but safe enough to crawl inside, and he is relieved to be able to see the end of it.

He stands up, shaking the sand off his trousers. When he looks up, his jaw nearly falls to the ground.

He is in a cave, but it is not dark at all. The rocks go up a few metres above his head, a bit like in a tower, and moonlight filters from the small holes puncturing through the rocks. There's sand under his feet, but just beside him lies a basin of calm and transparent water, surrounded by a few rocks. It's not deep at all, maybe three or four feet at the middle point. From there, a bit of water gathers against the rocks, where it goes down into a second pool, that one deeper and connected to the sea by an underwater point invisible to John's eyes. It takes him a while for his eyes to adjust, and a second more to understand that the light is not exactly coming from the moonlight alone, but also from the rocks themselves, and the water too, as if everything around him is softly aglow.

A splashing sound makes him turn his head towards Sherlock, who is rearranging a few items on the nearest wall, and John's brain finally understands what he is seeing.

He is surrounded by hundreds, and hundreds of objects. Everyday objects. Everyday _human_ objects. From the old telephones to forks and knives, passing by broken mugs, scissors, and what looks like books, now ruined because of the water. It makes his head slightly dizzy as he tries to understand why, why on Earth is he surrounded by such clutter, except that it's _not_ clutter because, well, it looks like there is some organisation system going on here. By… height, obviously, going from the smallest to the biggest objects, but also, it seems, by function, by families of objects, although he can see a few instances where it's wrong.

It looks like Sherlock is much more of a _human_ biologist than he ever was a marine one.

"That's, wow," John lets out, not sure how to correctly express his surprise.

Sherlock swims around, frantically rearranging a few items, as if he wants to make the best impression on John. Now he understands why his nest is not that popular amongst females of his kind. John had imagined something a bit more… exotic, full of marine flora and joyful colours. Not an antique's museum found on the side of highways.

"I, ugh— sorry," Sherlock says, rubbing at the back of his head, a bit embarrassed.

"No! I— I like it!"

He does. It's quite… something, really. He goes to the nearest wall, the one behind him, and observes what lies there: a few golden coins categorised by size, which definitely do not appear to be from this era. John carefully picks one and holds it against the moonlight. "That's extraordinary."

Sherlock huffs. " _Humans_. Always interested in gold and money."

"No, I mean — this," John says, waving at the cave, "quite extraordinary. That looks old, I wonder where it's from," he adds, trying to make sense of the engraving on the coin.

"I found it on a wrecked ship somewhere between here and Norway."

That's impressive. He puts the gold coin down, and he is about to ask if Sherlock has travelled much when his attention is directed on a skull lying not far away. A _human_ skull.

"Sherlock… Do you hunt people?" He can't hide the worried tone his voice takes on its own. He is sure that he is entirely safe when around Sherlock, but he might be an exception. What if, as in the old tales, Sherlock sings and drowns innocent people?

"Don't worry," Sherlock chuckles, "only females hunt. We sometimes scavenge drowned bodies, but I find that humans taste awful. When I found this one," he says, referring to the skull John is holding, " he was already half-eaten by fish. A pity, I would have liked to study his legs."

John hums, his shoulders relaxing. Sherlock seems so human, and so interested in humans that it's not surprising that he is the black sheep of his people. But this cave — nest is fascinating. He strolls closer to the rocks and glides a finger on one of them, trying to understand what exactly is the glowing substance that grows on them.

"What's that?"

Water splashes around as Sherlock swims closer to have a better look. It takes him a moment to get what John is pointing at.

"Oh, that's a specific type of algae. I don't think you know about them," he says, you meaning humans, of course. "They produce light and heat because they need both to survive, which makes it difficult for them to grow in open spaces. I've imported a culture here and they started spreading on the rocks, since the heat that they produce is better isolated here. That's why it's not as cold as outside. They're in the water too, it should be pleasant for your body temperature should you want to take a swim."

"I see. That's amazing."

"You keep saying that," Sherlock says, a bit lost.

"Sorry, I'll shut up."

"No, no, it's fine," Sherlock assures him. "Nobody ever found my nest amazing before."

He sounds proud, as he should be. All of this looks to be the work of a lifetime, and from what Sherlock has explained to him about nests, they play a big role into attracting potential mates. Complimenting on one's nest is probably the equivalent of flirting, isn't it? On the other hand, Sherlock would not have shown him if he was not ready — this feels wonderfully intimate, both being let in Sherlock's world and in the place he calls home. It's a damn shame that nobody ever understood the beauty of it before him. Although he does not mind being the first.

"Well, it is," he says, a bit lamely but he wants to be sure that the compliment is well heard.

Sherlock shrugs it off and swims towards him, holding an object in hand. He climbs over the rocks, his arms pushing his body up, the end of his tail both gripping at the rocks and helping him stay in balance. He is slightly more awkward out of the water, but every movement of his body is sheer elegance. Are they all like him?

Sherlock slips in the smaller basin, rolling on himself underwater, now that John can see him clearly, and emerges swimming on his back. John kneels down in the sand, curious.

"Tell me what it is," Sherlock asks, handing him a small black rectangle.

"Uh, that's an iPhone." It's not working anymore, obviously, and it's an older generation, but definitely an iPhone.

"A phone?" Sherlock frowns, the fins at his hips flapping against his skin in annoyance. "Are you sure? These are phones," he says and swims towards the nearest wall and points at an old rotary phone and two other 90s phones with their corkscrew-like cables. "They look nothing alike."

John laughs. Technology has been growing wild these few past years, and it's quite endearing to see Sherlock confused about the evolution of mobiles. He had not seen any at the lighthouse either, since John doesn't have any.

"Yes, I assure you that it's a phone."

"How does it work?"

"This one doesn't," John explains, "because it's been in the water for too long. But usually you turn it on with the button on the side, and then an image appears on the screen. A bit like a TV? You can touch that screen, and compose the number directly on it."

"It doesn't have an antenna or a line."

"No, it doesn't."

Sherlock frowns, carefully considering the iPhone, not convinced at all. In the end, he trusts John, because he plucks the iPhone from his hand and places it at the end of the line of the other phones, ordering them by size, before he stops in his tracks.

"What if… Since you're here, I could reclassify this by eras instead of size," he thinks out loud, visibly excited about that prospect. "Will you help me?"

"Uh, sure. I don't know if I'll be able to date everything, though, but for everyday objects, why not?"

He sits down on his heels as Sherlock brings him objects, replacing them accordingly. He got most of them right at the first try, but John understands that some things (an old lamp and a flashlight, for example) do not look at all the same although being close when considering function. It's surprisingly fun, explaining to Sherlock how people use these objects, and sometimes they're so simple that John has a bit of trouble finding his words. Other times, Sherlock brings him something so ancient that he has no idea what it could be. He also shows him a box of jewellery, or everything that goes into the category as "shiny objects". (John laughs quite a bit when he sees a butt plug with a fake jewel on its flat end lying in the same box as earrings and necklaces.)

It's only when the moon disappears and that the light turns brighter that John remembers where he is, as if time had considerably stretched around him as they were having fun.

"You need to go back," Sherlock deduces.

"I do."'

"I'll show you the way, if you want to."

John shakes his head. "No need, I remember." He does not want to endanger Sherlock as morning light is soon upon them. "See you tomorrow?"

"Of course. John?" Sherlock asks, just as he is about to crawl is way outside.

"Yeah?"

"You can come back any time you want."

John nods, understanding the importance of that open invitation. This is Sherlock's nest. A world where nothing and nobody exists outside of them both. He smiles. He will be back.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I know I skipped an update on Friday. I'm very busy at the moment because exams are coming in two weeks, and there's also family stuff I have to deal with. Anyway! I'll be updating once a week, on Monday, for the next two or three weeks. If I can, I will go back to the two updates per week during the Holidays, I'll have to see! Thank you for reading along and as always, thank you for all of your lovely comments, they're deeply appreciated! <33


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, many thanks to my amazing beta, Arcwin. <333
> 
> Sorry for the delay -- exams, and life, more generally, was a bit in my way lately. I'm not exactly sure when I'll be able to update it with the next chapter, but hopefully there will be an update before January, or at least in the beginning of January. This is quite the chapter, so I hope you will like it, and happy holidays & merry Christmas to all of you. <333

 

On the following nights, Sherlock leads the way towards his nest in a well-settled routine, where he asks John about the meaning or function of different objects. They often get into more complicated territories, and John has to remember his school days when he extensively teaches him the concept of electricity. It is quite funny to see that as much as Sherlock has an interest in human evolution and their objects, he does not care much about bigger scientific issues: even though John has caught him stargazing a few times, Sherlock does not know, for example, that the Earth turns around the sun.

"Why does it matter?" Sherlock says, annoyed. "Earth can turn around the sun or the sun can turn around the Earth and my life wouldn't be changed for it.”

John glares at him. "That's not true. Seasons are a product of Earth turning around the sun."

"I don't care about seasons, they all feel the same here, anyway."

"Maybe so, but don't you mate in the summer? _That_ affects your life."

Sherlock's mouth shuts in a tight line. "Well, I certainly _do not_."

John rolls his eyes and lets the matter drop. Sometimes, Sherlock can be infuriating.

One evening at the beginning of August, he decides not to wait for Sherlock, who is a bit late, and goes directly at his nest. It's not in his habit to do so, but an earlier altercation with Anderson in town made him impatient to get his mind off the matter altogether, and there is no better distraction than Sherlock and his endless questions.

When he enters the cave, Sherlock is not in the water but is sitting in the sand, concentrated on the scales of his tail. He does not seem to notice John's presence, as he is picking at his tail with his finger. He must be cleaning himself, John deduces, as Sherlock picks up a small wooden tool and starts grating at his tail. There is a stripe of pitch-black scales amongst his usual blue on the side of his tail, something that John had not noticed before. Can Sherlock change colours? Like a chameleon or something?

"Er— hi," he tries, and Sherlock turns his head so quickly that John fears he might have hurt himself.

"John!" Sherlock cries out, dropping his tool. A shiver runs through his body, and every scale turns blue again.

John gapes, not understanding. The scales did not change colour, exactly, but more like they have turned on themselves. It's clear that he has walked in on something he should not have seen. ( _"It's private!"_ Sherlock had told him when he had tried to touch his tail for the first time.)

"Sorry, should I come back later?"

Sherlock sighs, his shoulders dropping. "No, it's fine. Come on in."

John sits down beside him, folding his legs under him, unsure about what to do. Sherlock does not seem to mind his presence as he picks up his tool again (a chopstick with engraved Chinese words on the side) and starts working it between his scales. After a minute or two, he takes his hand and gently strokes a few centimetres of his tail in the reverse direction his scales go, which turns them black. John smiles, finally understand: it's the underside of Sherlock's scales that are black, and he can make them flip at his own will.

"I have so many questions right now," he says.

Sherlock looks up, the blue of his eyes nearly transparent under the moonlight. "And you think I don't?"

John chuckles. "All right, let's see: a question for a question, how about that? I start, though."

Sherlock seems to consider, and finally nods. "If you wish." Then: "Are you going to sit there all night without offering to help?"

John's eyebrow spring up. Should he have offered? "Sorry, I didn't—"

"Just take the brush and start working on the other end," Sherlock sighs.

John takes a look at the small collection of tools near Sherlock's hand. A brush? Unless he means— there's a small toothbrush, its hair nearly flat from overuse. John picks it up and moves away to the end of Sherlock's tail, just before the two fins separate. Carefully, he picks Sherlock's tail up, surprised by the weight of it, and puts it over his folded legs. It will be more comfortable like that.

Sherlock watches him, as if John is particularly inept right now. He leans in, and start carefully brushing scale by scale.

"Don't forget the other side, too."

Fascinated, John strokes a few scales, and watches as they easily flip to black under his hand. Sherlock shivers as he starts brushing, and John wonders exactly how much he feels what John is currently doing. Maybe it's like a pleasant massage, he imagines.

"Okay, first question: why do you change colours?" John asks, and Sherlock stops with the chopstick. Evidently, John is not asking a question that Sherlock wants to answer. Is it for camouflage, for hunting reasons? Does it make Sherlock hide better in the black of the deep waters?

"Everyone has a secondary colour," Sherlock explains, although John can hear the hesitation in his voice. "It's to attract potential mates during mating season."

John's mouth falls open, staring at a blushing Sherlock who furiously concentrates on cleaning his skin. "Wait, so does it turn black on its own, or do you have to—"

"Depends. Every black moon it turns on its own. Other times, I can make it black by changing it myself, whether it be with my fingers or because I want to."

That's a lot to register. So, basically, every month on the new moon, Sherlock turns into a horny creature? _Oh_. That's why he had painted himself that day, when they were still living together. Because he wanted to mate with John, and because he wanted to be visually pleasing to him. Well, it makes a bit more sense, now. Wait. Is cleaning his scales the equivalent of wanking, then?

"But how—"

"A question for a question," Sherlock counters. "It's my turn. How old are humans when they learn to walk?"

"Between nine months and a year old. It takes a lot of time to learn though, a few months at least."

Sherlock nods, and John can see that he's mentally filing away the information.

"Why every month, though? Didn't you say that mating season is over the summer?"

"Evolutionary reasons, I guess. Maybe there was a time when my kind would mate every month. Now males do experience a spike of… well, you know, every black moon. It's frustrating when you're alone, but during the summer, females try to coordinate their visits to find a nest on the black moon. Although we can mate during all of the summer, it makes it more… effective during that night."

John smiles. So, basically, male Ceasgs experience something like women's menstruation cycle. Without the blood, it seems, and that is probably for the best, John thinks. That never looked like much fun.

"Do you have children?" Sherlock asks, as a matter-of-fact.

"No," John answers, a bit surprised. "I would have told you if I had. Wait, do _you_ have children?"

"John," Sherlock says, with his usual _you're-an-idiot_ tone of voice, "I think it's pretty safe to assume that I don't. Why don't you have any?"

John shrugs as he keeps on brushing the scales. "I've never been with someone long enough to consider having children. And I don't think I'd want them anyway."

"Isn't it in your species' interest, to have offspring?"

"Isn't it in yours?"

"Fair enough," Sherlock finally says. "Your turn, now."

John's mind tries to scramble for a question to ask. There are so many he wants to know about, and it makes it difficult to choose. "So, you're not monogamous, then? Males and females don't live together all year long? Do you sometimes see other males?" Does Sherlock have friends from his own kind?

Sherlock cocks his head on the side, stopping his cleaning spree to think about it. "It's a bit complicated. Females and pips swim together in small communities whilst males have nests. Usually, females only meet males during the summer, most of the time going for the biggest males and the most comfortable, visually pleasing and safe nests. Sometimes, a female will visit the same male for her whole life, or at least for a few years. I've never heard of a female living in her male's nest all year long, but I suppose it could happen. Males are usually aggressive towards each other, especially during the black moons, unless they're from the same community — like human brothers. They usually live together the first few years when they're on their own, just because it's easier, before they can find a good place to settle their nests. That's how we did it, my… brother and I, at the beginning."

"Do you still see him sometimes?"

"It happens. Not so much since he's living with another male now."

"Oh, that can happen?"

"Yes," Sherlock says. "It can, although it's rarer with males, because it's hard to go through a black moon when we become more aggressive towards each other. It's even harder during the summer, and I've heard about a few couples having to separate during that time to still be able to mate, although I do believe that my brother stays with his love. They make it work, somehow. For females it's easier, nearly all of them are in a couple in my community from what I remember. They sometimes take pips as their love too."

 _As their love_ , John repeats in his mind, and smiles. He adores listening to Sherlock making up terms like that, from what he heard on the piers and in different ports. It's quite lovely.

"What are pips?"

"Don't humans have pips, too? They are the smallest of the Ceasgs. Their development takes longer as they have both male and female features, which will evolve depending on their environment. They can go on as males and find a nest, although most of them find it safer to travel with the females, who are very protective of them. They can't carry offspring, but they are good caretakers, and sometimes their loves are the females of the community."

"No, we don't have these," John says, a bit amazed, "although some people can have male and female features too. It's a bit complicated."

He finds it fascinating, the distinction between mating and love, which are not considered remotely the same in Sherlock's culture. From what he understands, both males and females have sex as a way to have offspring, but on the side, they can love whoever they want, apparently without the bigotry that the human world John knows has towards same-sex relationships. It seems a lot more liberal, and in a certain way, it makes more sense.

"I have a question now," Sherlock says, and John nods. It's his turn, after all, but there's evident hesitation in his tone. "One night, a few years ago, I saw a man and a woman on the beach… you _know_." He looks down, blushing, and it makes John laugh. "It didn't look exactly like how we… you know."

John tries to calm himself down, chuckling against his fist. It's entirely normal for Sherlock to be curious about that, after all, John is also curious about how it goes for his kind, but the way he says it takes John years back, when he and his friends would share their made-up stories about their first experiments in sexuality.

"That's because women have different anatomy than man."

"Oh?" Sherlock says, visibly waiting for John to get into the specifics. Well, he can't refuse him that, after having his questions answered in detail.

"They have a vagina instead of a penis," John says. There is no way to be delicate about this topic, and he knows that Sherlock wants frank answers. He's a doctor — he doesn't have to behave like a teenager over this. "It's like… a hole," he adds, seeing that the words mean nothing to Sherlock (except for the occasion sailor swear word, he guesses). He wonders if it's the same for female Ceasgs, but after all, Sherlock may not even know that answer.

"But you already have a hole."

John laughs at Sherlock's bluntness. Well, that's a subject of conversation John never he'd have to discuss one day. "Everybody has a hole like that. Women have another one, where the man inserts his penis during sex, which can lead to the woman carrying a child in her belly. Well, in her uterus, which is in her belly."

He hopes he is being simple enough without leaving crucial details aside.

"So… men like you cannot bear offspring?" Sherlock asks, and it surprises John. Male Ceasgs can't either, so why should Sherlock think that _he_ can?

"Well, no, since we don't usually have ute— wait," he says, realising. "Did you think I could carry your offspring?"

He thinks back to their first night, after which Sherlock had taken such good care of him it had been suspicious even at the time — serving him tea and breakfast, not wanting for him to get out of bed. Did Sherlock think that _John_ was pregnant with him?

"Well, I know that _now_!" Sherlock counters, sticking his hands under his elbows, like a child.

John laughs so hard he has to drop the toothbrush to hold on his sides, a fist under his nose. That also explains why Sherlock was not so keen at first to bottom — he thought that John wanted him to bear his children, not thinking that since their anatomy was the same (of course, they're both males), it couldn't happen either way.

"Sorry— Sherlock—" John tries, still laughing, "but that's— the sweetest thing," he finally lets out, tears gathering in his eyes as he tries to breathe slowly again.

Sherlock is looking at him from the corner of his eyes, still sulking, although there's the shadow of a smile on his lips.

"Don't worry— I would probably have been clueless in your case, too," John says, knowing how Sherlock can be susceptible at not knowing every fact under the sun, especially when it comes to humans. "Oh God, no, only women, or well, people with a uterus can carry children. Which you and I don't have."

"Yes, I thought it was a bit unhygienic to have children through the same hole you shit."

John erupts in giggles again, this time, followed by Sherlock. He imagines a man shitting a kid and, well— yeah. Not a good idea.

"Why do men have sex this way, then, if the hole doesn't have a role in mating?"

John sniffs, picking up the toothbrush again. "I don't know. Someone tried it once and thought it was fun? I mean, it's pleasurable, if you remember. It's just another way to be close to each other."

The tone of the conversation definitely has shifted. Now, John is fully aware that he's speaking not only to a friend, but to someone he had sex with. To someone he has feelings for. It's like staying friends with an ex, without acknowledging that there's still something there. Is it the case, in this situation? Would Sherlock still want him, after the way he fucked things up on the full moon? John feels so comfortable around him. It's still the same person, even though he has changed physically. Truth is that John still wants to be close to him. God, he's lived with the man for not even a whole month, and he misses it tremendously. He misses _him_.

"How did you learn to speak English, then? Do your people have some sort of education when you're small?" John asks, only to break the silence between them. They're still cleaning Sherlock's tail, although John is higher up now, brushing the scales at the middle of it. It's heavy on his knees, but there's something enjoyable about Sherlock's sudden physical presence in his life.

"No. They're wary of humans. I learned your language by staying near the docks when I swam around your island." (Great Britain, John thinks. That explains the English accent, and the mostly Scottish swear words.) "My people do not see my fascination with humankind as particularly healthy. As I've said before, I'm… not like the others, even from my own kind."

Sherlock doesn't seem to be particularly bothered about that fact. He's certainly self-confident, living his life as he has always wanted to, and unlike he was taught to. Something John has never been good at.

"It's true that you're one weird git," John teases, and he sees that it takes a second for Sherlock to understand that. (God, how many times he's been insulted, chastised by both his kind and humans for being who he is?) "What?" he adds, with the same tone in his voice. "Do you even _have_ a dick?"

It's meant as a joke, of course, but Sherlock lowers his head, furiously blushing. It's all terribly endearing, and John can see one of Sherlock's abdominal fin twitch. Probably subconsciously.

"John!" Sherlock cries out. "Of course I _do_. Although I don't need to have it dangling in front of my body at all times like a sodding monkey."

John shoves him in the shoulder hard enough to make Sherlock lose balance. He grabs John's arm, and they both topple backwards in the sand, laughing, John on top of him. From here, John can see every single detail of Sherlock's face. How his curls drag in the sand. How his lips are still stretched in a glorious smile. Every single one of his chins.

He stares for a few seconds. Long enough for Sherlock's smile to fade, replaced by something else.

John rolls off him, falling in the sand with a soft thud. He lets out a sigh, his thumb passing over the humid corners of his eyes. He sees that Sherlock is watching him, as they lie on their backs, John's hand on his stomach and Sherlock's in the sand between them. He could reach out, and take it in his own. He's nearly sure that Sherlock would let him.

"How long does your kind live?" John asks. Sherlock has turned his head, staring at the rocky ceiling above them. Softly, John reaches out to Sherlock's tail, trailing his index finger back and forth a patch of scales, making them turn black, then blue, then black again.

"Longer than yours."

They stay like that for quite a while, and John lets his hand drop in the sand, seeing that Sherlock has retracted his. "It's morning soon. You should go back."

John nods, already getting on his feet, shaking the sand from his jeans and coat. "All right. See you tomorrow?" He's not sure if Sherlock will say yes, but he needs to try nonetheless.

Surprisingly enough, Sherlock's answer comes with a smile. "Of course. Goodbye, John Watson."

 

***

 

John spends the following day at the village, buying a few things and replenishing his food stock. He passes by the clinic to say hi to Sarah, and he sees in her eyes that she notices the change in him. She listens to him with a smile on her face as he says he just wants to make a few phone calls, and leaves him in peace by leaving the room. He calls Harry first (no one answers; he leaves a voicemail) and then, Mrs. Hudson. She has left him his number when he went to see her, and informs her in a few short sentences that everything seems to be slowly going in the right direction, and she makes a plethora of delighted sounds. He thanks her for her help and she makes him swear to pass by in a few days, when he'll be back from his "honeymoon phase,” as she calls it. When he puts the phone down, Sarah comes back in the room with a smile that makes John wonder if she's thinking he's just been exchanging a few dirty words with his lover at the other end of the line.

They talk for a few minutes, mostly about the flu outbreak going around the village, the renovations Sarah's brother been working at the oil field up north, and Anderson's frenzied state over these past few days.

"He still blames you for having taken care of that poor bloke, for some reason. I'd keep a low profile around him if I were you, he's absolutely furious. I think that the storm has scared him. Brought up some memories of his father's death," she hypotheses.

John shrugs. He's not particularly afraid of Anderson. "By the way, I should tell you I saw your aunt," he says, as he has completely forgotten the familial link existing between the two women.

"Oh, how is she, dear old Martha?"

"Fine, very fine, she's in a very good shape for her age."

"I still can't believe you went to see her."

"It was… quite interesting. She told me about Eileen," John says, remembering about her friend's lover, well, _wife_.

Sarah's face darkens momentarily, before she takes a surprised look. "Really? Gosh, I wouldn't believe she would tell strangers about her… you know. Her relationship with her."

John frowns. "Her relationship with her?" Did Mrs Hudson had some kind of disagreement over her friend's wife? Or did she have an _affair_ with her?

"Well, you know, she considered herself married to Eileen in a time before that was possible. My parents were awfully conservative, always thought that Martha was crazy, that she was somehow involved in her husband's death before eloping with Eileen. I've never seen my aunt before Eileen died. Only then did my parents agree to visit her, to let me near her. She was amazing with me — I must have been five or six years old, always telling me tales about sea creatures and mermaids. She showed me drawings. I think it was her way of grieving her, you know, to think that she had peacefully swam away and that she would come back to take her, one day. She never mentioned those stories to my parents, though. She probably thought that a child's imagination would accept it more easily."

John stands there, the morsels of the story clicking in his mind. God, he's been such a fool. Mrs Hudson, talking about her "friend's" love life, and experience with mermaids. He should have known: she had the photographs, the ring, the sadness, the loneliness of someone that had known once true love.

He makes up some lame excuse to justify his need to leave. He needs to see Sherlock, to go back to the lighthouse as soon as possible, in order to take the boat to see him now.

The jeep roars forward once he pushes the pedal, and sets his eyes on the blue horizon. It's entirely illogical, but he doesn't want to waste any second away from Sherlock now. As if Mrs Hudson's poor fate has motivated him to do the right thing, to say the right things. God, and if he's not misread the situation entirely on the day before, maybe Sherlock would be ready for something more. He knows that he is.

He can't bear the idea of another unhappy ending.

 

***

 

John enters the nest on all fours, tugging a plastic bag behind him. Sherlock does not seem to be there yet, so he goes around the walls of the nest, checking out a few objects he never got close to before. For the first time he notices a skull lying between two stones, of something big. Something _enormous_ , and from the looks of its teeth, quite the predator. He'll have to ask Sherlock about it.

He's playing with an old and small pendulum clock when he hears water splashing behind him. He turns on his heels to see Sherlock climbing on the rocks, from the big basin to the small one, before he shakes his hair (not unlike a dog, John notices with a smile) and rolls in on the ground, the sand catching on his wet skin.

"John!" he says, rolling on his back to get a better look at him. "Hello."

"Hi," John answers, as he feels a stupid smile stretching his lips. He sits down in the sand, at the height of Sherlock's shoulders, and tugs the bag towards them. "I have some things for you."

Sherlock frowns, popping himself on his elbows, the fins at his waist flapping around in obvious curiosity. "Tea?"

"It's not tea, no," John says, not bothering to explain that he wouldn't be carrying hot water around in a plastic bag. Although he could use a thermos. Yes, that might be a solution. "Here," he says, handing Sherlock the toothbrush.

Sherlock stares at it for a moment. "It's a brush?"

"Yes, but this one is battery-powered. Just push the button."

Sherlock does as he's told, and as soon as the tip of the toothbrush starts to vibrate, he drops it in the sand, jerking backwards in surprise. John chuckles, picking it up again. "It's only vibrating. I guessed it would be more effective than the old one you have."

Sherlock sits up again, the end of his tail tapping twice in the sand as a silent thank you. He picks up the toothbrush, sets it on, and applies it to the underside of one of his scales. John watches silently as a surprising shiver runs through Sherlock's body. "Uh, er— that's nice," he says, and John cannot help but catch him blushing. He only now realises that if Sherlock's set of black scales are somehow linked to his… libido, he might have just gifted him an improvised vibrator. God, he'll never brush his teeth the same again, he thinks, as he tries not to laugh. "But I'm clean, anyway," Sherlock decides, and sets the toothbrush on the side. "What else?" He eyes the bag, which evidently contains something more. He looks like a child on Christmas who knows that he can't be gifted only _one_ gift.

"Here," John says, taking the book out of the bag. "Dry your hands before you touch it, though."

"How? I don't have—"

Sherlock's sentence is interrupted by John taking off his coat and then his jumper, to hand it to Sherlock. He will need the coat to stay warm on his way back, but Sherlock can use his jumper. He's wearing a white tee-shirt underneath, and the nest is pleasantly humid and warm, thanks to the luminous algae. Slowly, Sherlock reaches out for the jumper, and dries his hand in it, and then his face and shoulders, not wanting for droplets of water to fall on the book and ruin it.

He then takes the book and rolls on his belly, as John lies down beside him. "The title's _Sapiens, A Brief History of Humankind_ ," he reads. "I think this will answer a few of your questions," he says, meaning it. Better than he could ever have, at least.

"Read, now," Sherlock orders him opening the book and trailing his fingers over the title on the first page.

John leans in, his shoulder against Sherlock's, and starts to read. After a while, he follows the words with his finger as he reads them, while Sherlock watches with rapt attention. John reads for a while, a chapter, then two, until he starts to feel his throat going dry. He lets his hand rest on the page and looks up to Sherlock with the intention of asking him if he wants to keep going.

Instead, John's breath catches in his throat when he sees Sherlock staring back at him, so close that he can see the detail of his eyelashes. Sherlock's hand brushes his, on the book. The silent question is suspended in the air between them, and just as John opens his mouth, wanting to be sure, Sherlock closes the distance by sealing their lips together.

It's harsh, a bit desperate on both sides. It's good. It's so good it makes John's eyes fill with tears as Sherlock grabs his hand over the book and holds on as if he's about to disappear in thin air. He moans into the kiss, thanking whatever instance there is to thank that he gets to feel Sherlock's lips on him again. Apart from the hint of salt, he tastes the same, smells the same, _feels_ the same. Like everything is made right in the universe again. Like the chaos inside him has ordered itself around the intangible fact that he loves this man more than anything else.

The kiss grows hungry, sloppier as Sherlock opens his mouth, letting John suck on his lower lip, hands trailing over his face until Sherlock grabs them. He pulls John downwards as he rolls on his back, without breaking the kiss, and once freed again, John trails his fingers over Sherlock's chest, lower and lower until skin becomes soft and wet scales.

"John—"

He hushes him into another kiss, before he lets his eyes trail down Sherlock's body. His tail is now fully black, and not shiny like his usual blue colour. No, it has a matte texture, yet it lets the light around him bounce back in small fluorescent flashes of colours, like tiny rainbows dancing over his tail. John's never seen something quite like it, and understand now how much this change makes Sherlock look impossibly better.

"You're beautiful," he says, returning his gaze unto Sherlock's face, who looks down in turn.

"I— please, John," Sherlock answers, his hands grabbing at John's arm, the tone of his voice tight with arousal.

John murmurs quiet _yeses_ into the crook of Sherlock's neck, caressing his scales until he can properly look down again. Just as Sherlock has said, there, nested between his two abdominal fins, an erect cock is lying flat against his belly. John is internally relieved that it looks and seems quite human: with a head and a shaft, although there is no foreskin, and he suspects that his testes are left inside of his body. It's proportionate, and looks the same size that it was when Sherlock had human legs, although it seems to be a bit wider at the base, only to properly close off the slit in it's erected from.

John dips his hand, carefully closing his fist around Sherlock's cock, kissing him at the same time. Sherlock hisses, his back arching off the sand, the fins at his hips caressing John's sides. He starts off with slow strokes, pleasantly surprised to feel that it's already quite slick, whether it is from an enormous amount of pre-come or from the slickness inside him. Practical reasons, John thinks, merfolk certainly do need good lubrication if they go around having sex in the water.

“God,” he says, smiling into another kiss. He's thinking about the precise functions of his lover's biology when he should focus on pleasuring him. It's definitely working: both of Sherlock's arms are flung around John's shoulders, as he jerks him off faster and faster, his thumb passing over the head of his cock, in the exact motion he knows Sherlock likes.

Sherlock tugs at him and he stumbles a bit forward, his own waist coming in contact with the side of Sherlock's tail, and John can't help but suddenly be hyper-aware of his own arousal pressing against the zip of his jeans. He grinds his hips against Sherlock, only to relieve a bit of the pressure, and that, above everything else, does it for Sherlock.

John kisses his neck as Sherlock throws his head back, unable to resist smothering the little _uhuhuhuhuh_ s that come out in time with his heaving chest. Instead of Sherlock's hips thrusting up, John actually feels Sherlock's cock making the motion by itself without him having to move a muscle.

"Fuck, that's hot," John says, out of breath, as he lets Sherlock's cock fuck into his fist. "Yeah, come on, you're close, I know you want to—"

"John!"

John feels Sherlock's abs contracting under him as he comes, thick ropes of semen splattering over his heaving belly between them.

"Fuck yes," John mumbles, planting kisses at the corner of Sherlock's lips, feeling the large hands roaming all over his back in slow strokes as Sherlock comes back down from his orgasm.

He's still breathing heavily when he reaches out to kiss John properly, who is already trying to free his own erection from his jeans.

"John Watson," Sherlock says in a pleased sigh.

"You liked that?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes at him, before planting his mouth just under John's jaw, sucking a bit at the skin, just as John reaches in his pants with a moan.

"I once said that someday I'd put my mouth on you," Sherlock says.

He licks his lips. "I remember."

"Turn on your back," Sherlock orders, and John flings himself in the sand, his hands trying to push down his jeans without much success.

Sherlock is on him in a second, pulling the trousers down, then his pants, letting his erection bob free. John lets his head fall back in the sand, feeling Sherlock pressing his lips to his waist, before he pushes John's tee-shirt up his chest.

When he looks down, he sees Sherlock, lying between his legs, eyeing John's cock as if it's about to start tap dancing before his own eyes. John tries to dig his hands in the sand, swallowing back his plea for Sherlock to _hurry the fuck up_. Finally, finally, fina- _lly_ , Sherlock takes him in hand, and carefully licks at the head of his cock.

John lets his head fall back with a groan, his pleasure short-lived: Sherlock jerks back, a crinkle appearing between his eyebrows after having discovered the not particularly pleasing taste of pre-come.

"We can—" John starts, before Sherlock cuts him off.

"No, I want to," he says, and it's evident that he's eager for it, maybe just not as much as John currently is.

"You'll be fine. Just — no teeth, okay? That's the only rule, the rest will come easy, you'll see. I'm not going to last long anyway, it's been awhile and the sight of you, well—" John encourages him, and that seems to do the trick. Sherlock smiles, and wraps his lips around John's cock.

No teeth being the only rule might have been a slight exaggeration. Sherlock certainly isn't _breaking_ any rules, but he's not making up with great technique either. It's not bad, but it's not exactly good. Definitely too sloppy, and it's evident that Sherlock is concentrating on trying to reproduce some of the things John has done on him, without much success and definitely too much concentration. It's a big improvement from their first night, still, when Sherlock had had no idea that his partner even needed to be pleasured in return, that he had his preferences too. John lies there, his eyes on Sherlock, trying to get off from the sight of him between his legs.

Until they both make the surprising discovery that mermen apparently do not have a gag reflex.

Sherlock starts to take more of him in his mouth, something John knows he could never achieve himself without choking, and seeing that there is no resistance, Sherlock sinks down further and further on John, until his cock hits the back of his throat.

John grunts, his cock hardening with renewed interest, as he places a hand on Sherlock's head, not pushing, only touching.

"Can I?" he asks, hips twitching slightly as he demonstrates. Sherlock hums around him, and suddenly, it's total bliss. "Fucking Christ, that's good."

He starts thrusting in Sherlock's mouth with whatever remains of self-restraint in him. When he feels Sherlock's hands reaching for his arse, he understands that he has the permission to do as he wishes: with one hand still in Sherlock's hair, he starts fucking the wet heat of his mouth in earnest.

"Sher—" he lets out, when he's close, but Sherlock does not seem bothered by it.

With a final thrust, John spills himself deep down Sherlock's throat, his head hitting the ground behind him with such strength that it blinds him for a second. Sherlock lets go the second John stops coming, coughing a little, before he smears the back of his hand over his pinked-up lips.

He crawls between John's legs, and the second John opens his eyes again, he sees Sherlock's face looming over him.

"Was this all right?" Sherlock asks, his voice husky. He jerks back in surprise at hearing himself like that.

"Very much so," John chuckles. He'll probably only get better from there. As always, he finds himself in Sherlock's arms again, being tugged on top of him. Now he understands better, feeling Sherlock's hands roaming over his hair, since his legs fit perfectly over the flat surface of Sherlock's tail. It must be some sort of post-coital cleaning ritual, he guesses, as Sherlock (and probably all Ceasgs) are quite taken with being extra-clean at all times. Slowly, he grates his finger over Sherlock's now-blue scales, and is greeted with a bit of a hum in acknowledgment.

Soon enough, Sherlock's fingers find the hem of John's crumpled tee-shirt, and tugs it over his head, letting the pendant pool over Sherlock's chest.

"You're… wearing this," Sherlock whispers, taking the blue scale between his fingers.

"Sorry, do you want me to—"

"No, keep it. It should be yours anyway."

"I—" John starts, but for a lack of words, he pops on his elbows and kisses Sherlock instead. There is no limit to his regrets: he should have said the words on that night, before Sherlock's transformation, so that he could have stayed at the lighthouse. So that they could be together. Against the rest of the world. It's what Sherlock had wanted at the time, it's what he asked John, and what John had been unable to deliver. Now, their secret relationship feels like an affair. Like something he should be ashamed of, slipping out of the lighthouse every single night to find himself in the arms of his lover.

He realises now that he'd like for everyone to know. To affront Anderson's growing resentment. Sarah's knowing gaze.

To parade Sherlock around the village like he's never done before. To hold his hand. To walk beside him.

To hold all the stares, and when he's asked, to slowly reply: _look, everyone, this is my lover, and he comes from the sea_.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been busy busy, but I'm back with a new chapter! "Warning" for full on interspecies sex -- I had fun with that, I hope you'll have too!

John never thought he would see another merfolk of Sherlock's kind, since Sherlock had told him that his nest never had any particular luck in attracting potential mates, and that males lived far from each other anyway. He can't hide his surprise, when, upon entering the cave on all fours, Sherlock climbs unto the rocks, panic written all over his face.

"Hide! Quickly! So she can't see you!"

Without thinking, John drops behind the biggest rock he can see, one bordering the biggest water basin. A loud splash later, Sherlock has gone back into the water. He wants to look, but is unsure if he should. Are they fighting? Worse — are they _mating_? From what Sherlock has told him, females do visit males' nests during all summer. Maybe this time, Sherlock had more luck. They've never truly discussed it, and he wouldn't be surprised if Sherlock's instinct makes him want to take up a willing offer.

John's hand clench over the rock until his knuckles grow white. He cannot help himself and takes a peek, leaning over the side of the rock.

For a moment, the water is still. Then, in another great splash, a tail emerges from it (Sherlock's — it's blue) followed by a flash of white. John discerns movement nearly at the surface of the water, but it's too dark from him to tell what is happening. Something that requires… vigorous efforts, evidently.

After a minute or two where John wonders if he should simply walk away and come back another night, Sherlock emerges from the water, thrown back against the rocks on John's left. The creature that follows him is so different that John wonders if they're from the same species at all: she hardly looks human, her skin eerily pale and the scales at her hips white, nearly transparent, hair so long that he can't see the end of it. She could be something like a ghost, but John remembers that she probably lives in deep waters where the sun never reaches.

She's both taller and bigger than Sherlock, and visibly has no problem keeping him against the rocks, her hands on his chest, her whole body against his.

It's wrong, and John sees it instantly: Sherlock is still deep-blue of colour, not a single scale turned black. He's looking at her, both surprised and stuck, as she rubs against him, her intentions clear. It should be sexy, except that it's obvious that Sherlock is not enjoying this.

"Hey!" John shouts, emerging from behind the rock without thinking.

It works: they both turn their head at the same time. Sherlock's eyes grow wide as the mermaid sniffs the air and moves towards John. God, he's misinterpreted her from the start: she's not some kind of inhuman beast, but a beautiful, pale and tall woman, swimming towards him. He steps forward, between the rocks, feeling as if he could get lost in the complexity of her deep-blue eyes, down her elegant nose and the fragile line of her lips.

Sherlock jumps on her back, and for a moment, John is ready to jump into the water to help the poor creature. She changes back instantly, breaking the illusion as she reaches behind her, her long nails clawing at Sherlock's face, pulling at his hair. She turns around, both of them shrieking at each other so loudly that John clamps his hands over his ears.

John watches, useless, as Sherlock grabs one of her hands, trying to sink his teeth anywhere on her arm, but she's quicker, clawing at his chest until blood drips out of the cut. He brings his tail from underwater and slaps her away, shouting sounds that probably translate to words, in a language that John doesn't understand. She grabs him back, pushing on his shoulders, and they're both nearly sinking underwater again when John has the presence of mind to step in.

"Wait!" he shouts, knowing that she probably doesn't understand a word of what he's saying. In despair, he grabs at the pendant underneath his collar and pulls it out, showing the shiny blue scale at the end of it, not exactly knowing if it's going to help at all.

The mermaid stops moving, her eyes focusing on the necklace John is holding in his fist. She stares at Sherlock, and then back at John, before she lets go of Sherlock's shoulders. She sighs and falls back into the water.

"Give me a moment," Sherlock says, before he disappears as well.

John watches the smooth water underneath him, intrigued, as he puts the pendant back in its place, feeling the cold scale dropping against his chest. He wonders why Sherlock is following her. Maybe he has got it wrong? Maybe the Ceasgs like their mating on the rough side, and he has just disappointed Sherlock? Surely not, he thinks. He had not seemed to be enjoying it at all when it was happening.

He sits down in the sand, playing with it between his fingers, waiting until Sherlock gets back, an uneasy feeling growing in his guts.

Finally, after what seemed to have been an eternity (but it couldn't have been more than two or three minutes, John reasons), Sherlock leaps on the rocks and onto to sand, dragging himself and sitting up beside him.

John reaches for Sherlock's chest, wiping away the droplet of blood that is coming out of his cut. It's not deep, nor does it look dangerous, but it worries him nonetheless.

"She hurt you," he says, before his eyes settle on Sherlock's face, placing his hand over Sherlock's ribs.

"I'm fine, don't worry."

John cocks his head. He's seen it in enough patients and soldiers, the desire to appear stronger when injured. It's only a cut, but in his quietness, Sherlock seems shaken. "That was… intense," John tries.

"Yes, well, she was a bit desperate," Sherlock says, looking up, his fingers rubbing over the scar on the right side of his tail. "Summer's ending, and she wasn't able to find a mate. It's her first year, she'll get better at it. You shouldn't have intervened."

"I was worried," John says, and it's true.

"I'm able to manage this on my own," Sherlock hisses. "She could have killed you. You were gagging for it the moment you saw her."

"Sorry," John mumbles, although he knows it was out of his control. God, he really would have jumped into the water under her influence, wouldn't he? "She didn't, though. Why?"

"You showed her this," Sherlock says, still pouting, as he reaches towards the small bump under John's shirt. "She understood that it was a lost cause. I've chosen my mate both as someone who is male _and_ human, she was not going to lose her time here. She apologised and left."

John's eyebrow go up. She actually _apologised_ — that's what they must have been doing under the surface while John was waiting for him. "If only it could be that easy between humans," he sighs. They sit side by side for a moment, John considering. "Sherlock, you know that… Well, I understand, it's instinctive. I wouldn't blame you if you wanted to… mate with her."

Sherlock turns his head, chin jerking backwards. "But I _don't_ want to. I want nothing to do with her— with them. John, you must understand that." He picks up John's hand in his own, linking their fingers together, his anger momentarily gone.

John rubs his thumb over Sherlock's knuckles as he looks at him. "Of course, you great idiot, I understand." He swings a leg over Sherlock's tail, sitting down on it, before placing a kiss on the corner of Sherlock's lips.

"I want to show you something," Sherlock says, answering the kiss, his tongue darting out, licking at John's lower lip.

"Oh yeah? And what would that be?" John asks, teasingly.

He's a bit surprised when Sherlock rolls out from under him, only to fall back in the shallow basin. "Get the boat and follow me!"

Excitement shines in his eyes, and if John can't help but sigh a bit, he gets up, and fetches the zodiac from outside.

Sherlock's head pops out of the water in the distance, and so John sets the boat after him. The night is dark and quiet, the silence only broken by the rumbling sound of the motor and the bow splitting the waves at the front. After a few minutes of navigating towards the horizon, in the opposite direction of the nest, Sherlock's head pops out again.

"Stop here," he says, and his voice is carried across the flat surface as John stops the motor. When it's safe enough to approach, Sherlock's hands catch onto the rubber of the boat. "In a moment," he promises, looking under himself.

John leans over the side of the zodiac, watching the water. For a moment, he isn't sure if his eyes are playing a trick on him, but no, there it is: a glowing mass slowly appearing under them, deep in the water. It's bright blue and growing, and for a second, John imagines something like an enormous whale coming up to the surface to swallow them. He scoffs at himself, knowing that that's hardly possible. Still, under the blue mass, it seems like they're impossibly small.

The boat sways on the water as Sherlock hoists himself on it. "I'd rather not have them touch me," he explains, and finally, John understands.

The jellyfish come to the surface, ten thousand tiny blue glowing dots, and John is unsure if he's not actually looking upside-down at the starry sky. He sits down in the boat to take a moment to come back to his wits. Sherlock, whose head is resting on his hands, perked up on the rubber sides of the zodiac, looks at him, visibly happy to have made an impression. "Beautiful, isn't it?"

"How do we not know about this?"

"You humans see but do not observe. There is much in nature that goes blind in the eye of men."

John frowns at Sherlock's wonky way of saying things, but as always, it makes him more endearing than anything else. He watches as Sherlock extends his hands over the boat, his index trailing at the surface, at the border between both of their worlds.

"Isn't it dangerous?" John breathes out, captivated.

A tiny jellyfish swims to him, as if curious. It dances for a moment around Sherlock's still finger, before it swims away. "Not when you know how to do it."

John's attention shifts from the jellyfish to Sherlock's face, faintly illuminated with the blow glow, droplets of water glistening over his skin, down his nose and nesting at his Cupid's bow. He extends his hand and tilts Sherlock's chin in his direction. There's a quiet moment when neither of them moves. John feels Sherlock's quiet and warm breathing on his skin.

He breaks the distance between them and kisses him, tastes the salt on his chapped lips. Sherlock kisses back, fisting both of his hands in John's shirt, under his coat, with enough intensity to make the both of them topple on the bottom of the zodiac. Sherlock has got tremendously better at kissing, to John's greatest satisfaction, his attention to detail showing during their moments of intimacy.

An arm under Sherlock's shoulders, John trails his left hand down Sherlock's tail, teasing the scales here and there, feeling how easily they switch to black under his touch. Every single thought about the earlier encounter with the mermaid is forgotten, and John wants to make sure that Sherlock is taken care of, tonight at least.

Already hard after a few minutes of kissing, John's surprised to see that Sherlock is not in the same state when his hand bumps against his closed-off abdominal fins. He caresses them for a while, before Sherlock relaxes, and John flips them over to trail his finger over the already slicked slit, not too hard but with enough pressure to bend the folds inwardly a bit. Sherlock gasps under his lips, and it gives John an even better idea.

He lets go of Sherlock's lips in favour of his jaw, his neck, and goes down his chest until his mouth meets the rough texture of the first few scales of his tail. His thumb runs softly over the veins of Sherlock's left fin, and wondering if he's sensitive there, John drops his head and licks at his slit.

The reaction is instantaneous: Sherlock drops his head, hitting the rubber side of the zodiac, and the end of his tail nearly hits John as it curls up in a spasm. John looks up and smiles, waiting for a confirmation.

" _Don't_ stop!" Sherlock groans, fingernails raking against the bottom of the boat.

"All right," John says, lowering his head again, but this time his chin bumps against the head of Sherlock's cock, finally curious enough to take a peek out of its hiding place. "Can you keep it inside? I want to try this."

Sherlock nods feverishly, grabbing onto John's hand when it is offered to him. John flattens his tongue, and licks once more a broad strip over the slit, thanking years of evolution not to have it bordered with scales, but rather soft dark-grey skin. It's been a while since he's done this, and it doesn't have the complexity of a woman's anatomy, but John is pleased that it's something he's rather good at. Sherlock definitely seems to think so, his opening wet and leaking. John runs his tongue over the top of the slit, and pushes it inside, feeling Sherlock relaxing around the intrusion. Sherlock whimpers and his hand flies to John's head, and he lets Sherlock push him harder against him, until the tip of his tongue meets the very distinctive texture of the underside of Sherlock's cock. It jumps under his touch, trying to push into John's mouth before Sherlock remembers himself, and relaxes again.

"Do something!" he hisses, letting go of John's head, who's scalp tingles under the strain that was put on his hair.

John looks up, and the sight of Sherlock under him, with his reddened cheeks, pink lips and messy hair makes his cock twitch in his trousers. "What do you want?"

"I don't know! Anything!"

He smiles at Sherlock's impatience, and traces the folds of the slit with his fingers. Technically, if his tongue can go inside… He gently pushes one finger in, and Sherlock's head hits the back of the boat with a loud thud — he's going to have a bump, later, John reflects, but Sherlock seems to be already out of this world.

"This all right?" he asks, only to be sure. He isn't hurting him, is he? Yet they're both in unexplored territories — although John has a few ideas, he doesn't know if they're applicable and safe for Sherlock's anatomy. He can't really ask Sherlock, since his experience is also more than limited.

Sherlock groans a vaguely positive sound, and John thrusts his finger in the warm and slick heat of Sherlock's body, his other hand teasing the sensitive fin at Sherlock's hip. He adds a second one when Sherlock's moans grow louder, and dips his head again, inserting his tongue between his scissored fingers, trying to reach deeper.

"More, more! _Now_!"

John takes his fingers out, understanding what Sherlock is asking, but unsure if he can give it to him. "I'm not sure that I fit," he says, and saying that throws him back ages ago, when Sherlock was saying the same thing on their first night. How the tables have turned.

"Let's try," Sherlock breathes out, flapping a hand around. "Experiment— yes, good experiment. Now!"

"All right, all right. You'll have to tell me if it hurts or if you want me to stop, okay?"

Sherlock nods, and John reaches for his belt, opening the front of his jeans. He halts for a moment, before he decides to get his trousers and pants off altogether. It takes a bit of gymnastic to strip them off in the restrained space, before he climbs on Sherlock's tail, his calves on either side of him. Sherlock sits up and they kiss as John gives himself a few strokes, although he doesn't particularly need it — he cannot possibly be harder than he is now, and is not sure how long he'll be able to last. Sherlock's precise fingers undo the buttons of his shirt, before John pushes him gently against the bottom of the zodiac. His eyes roam over Sherlock's body, still illuminated with the soft blue glow around them, until they reach the slit, the fins open in a clear invitation, its folds swollen with arousal. He breathes in, trying not to lose it right here and there, and slowly, directs his cock towards the opening.

He pushes inside easily, and thanks God for Sherlock's naturally produced lubricant. He lets go of his cock and thrusts in slowly until his balls meet Sherlock's skin. With the restrained space on the boat, their position is a bit awkward, but it doesn't stop Sherlock for reaching for his biceps,  a strong grip on John's arms.

"Too much?"

"No— weird," Sherlock breathes out. "Good weird. Like-experiment-weird."

Well, that can't be bad? John cocks his head, one of his hands stroking Sherlock's side, trying to control his own arousal, taking the time for Sherlock to relax. Remembering how kissing did the trick last time, he leans forward and pulls Sherlock up by his shoulders, and does just so. It takes a minute or two for Sherlock to kiss back fully, his hands roaming over John's chest, spreading his shirt open. John forgets himself and thrusts in, but instead of clenching, Sherlock moans in his mouth, pulling him closer.

He fucks him slowly at first, not pulling out but circling his hips, until he changes in favour of deep, long strokes, trying to see what Sherlock likes best. It feels like nothing he ever experienced before: not exactly like a man, not exactly like a woman, and it's perfect just like that.

"Harder," Sherlock orders, his fingers digging in John's shoulders.

John complies, placating his arm against the seat beside him for better leverage, and kicks up his hips, going for short, precise thrusts. "Fuck— you're fucking sweet— yeah, like that," he groans, throwing his head back.

His eyes fly open when he feels something moving inside Sherlock, _against_ him. He goes still under Sherlock's furious eye, whose abdominal fins flap against John's arse, commanding him to start moving again. "Fuck, that's—" John starts, before he understands that what he feels is actually Sherlock's own cock rubbing against him. Both inside of him. "Out of this bloody world," he finishes.

John starts to move again, locking his eyes with Sherlock's, thrusting so hard that the zodiac sways from one side to the other, waves rippling against its sides. It's so sweet, it's so good John can hardly think, only to focus on Sherlock's cock frotting against him, growing harder and harder, exquisitely tightening the space around John's cock.

He closes his eyes for a second, his ears filling with Sherlock's moans and whimpers punctuating every thrust until he feels his balls drawing closer to his body.  "Gonna come, Sherlock, fucking hell, I'm—"

Sherlock beats him to it, every single muscle of his body contracting at the same time, clenching around John's cock, as spurts of cold come coats him from the inside. God, Sherlock came in himself, and that should be fucking weird, but it's exactly what it takes for John's hips to slam against Sherlock, burying himself the deepest that he can, and then he's coming, and coming, and coming, his forehead smearing sweat on Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock's hands are stroking his sides as John comes back from it, placing kisses on Sherlock's chest, before he pulls offs and rolls to the side. The bottom of the zodiac is rough on his skin, and so he reaches for the towel on the seat, gives himself a customary wipe and since Sherlock seems quite clean himself, places the towel under both of their backs.

Sherlock is watching him closely, his chest still heavy, limbs still limp. It's only when John rolls on his side, running his index finger over Sherlock's arm that he deigns to make a sound. "John," he groans, and John chuckles.

"Is it… okay that you came inside yourself?" he asks. He knows that Sherlock is not technically able to have children, so there is no risk of auto-fecundation. _That_ would be a wild trip. He doesn't even know if it's safe what they did, if his own ejaculate is not going up the wrong tubes or something.

"No, it's fine. Happens sometimes when I'm sleeping." He states it factually, although John knows that the heat is rising on Sherlock's cheeks. "It should wash away next time I get in the water."

"Did you like it, though?"

He smiles. "It was quite… _out of this bloody world_ ," he paraphrases. "Yes, John, I enjoyed this immensely. I hope you did too?"

John tries not to chuckle: Sherlock speaks as if they're talking about a movie they just watched. "I enjoy _you_ immensely, you great idiot," he says fondly.

John wiggles closer, watching Sherlock who gazes at the stars without a reply for him. As much as he likes the sky at night, nothing can make his heart grow warmer than the sight of Sherlock. The words are right on the tip of his tongue, and he feels like they wouldn't be out of place, here, between the infinity of the sky and the sea.

"Maybe this isn't a good idea," Sherlock breathes out, after a while, and John's brain needs a second to understand what he's talking about.

"What?" John pops on his elbow. "Why are you saying that?" _Just_ after they've had the most amazing sex John's every experienced. What's going on?

"It's not your fault. It's— me."

John chuckles nervously. "Sherlock, you've just used the most damned line in all of humanity."

"Because it's true!" Sherlock counters, sitting up against the rubber band. "I don't think I can do this."

"But we _are_ doing this. What's going on?" John adds, and he can't help but sound worried.

Sherlock turns his head as John watches him. It takes a minute or two, then: "I've seen my brother."

John reaches for Sherlock's hand, and fortunately, Sherlock lets him. He doesn't know much about this mysterious brother of his, but it doesn't sound particularly good. "And?" he gently presses him to keep going.

"I didn't even have to tell him. I smell like you, after all this time." John smiles. That's _good_ . "He was angry with me, for fraternising with your kind again. It's not his business, and I told him so, but he can be so annoying. _All lives end, Sherlock, all hearts are broken, Sherlock, caring is not an advantage,_ Sherlock," he sing-songs with a high-pitched tone.

"That's… bullshit," John says, frowning. Did Sherlock believe him?

"I would agree with you, although — this is the only time I will say it and I will not repeat it — my brother tends to be right."

"Well, he should follow his own rules, if they're so universal," John spits out, remembering that the idiot actually has a lover too.

Sherlock turns his head towards him, letting go of his hand, before crossing his arms over his chest. "Don't you see, John? It's _me_ , it's always been me. When my brother and I were first chased off our community, one of our mothers asked him to stay with me, to watch over me, at least in the beginning. I was a… complicated child, and while we were always swimming deep to avoid any trouble with both bigger animals and humans, I would keep on wanting to go higher, to see how the human world works. I only heard about it in stories, and became instantly very interested in the whole matter, not caring about my community's warnings about the cruelty of humans. I was able to explore once we got away with my brother, who kept an eye on me. He wouldn't let us go near the docks, or the boats, although I've tried many times. He would occasionally indulge me, when he would decide that the risks were low, we would swim to the surface and listen to the humans on the boats, and slowly, we both learned your language. I saw, soon enough, that this life of travels was boring him. He would often stop at interesting spots, picking up colourful corals and shells, in what I thought at the time to be scientific curiosity. After a year of repeating to me that caring is not an advantage, that humans are too dangerous to be befriended, he had enough to build himself a nest, and settled down with his love. He betrayed me. And in his betrayal, I understood that his words were not of universal value. They were only intended towards me. That my life would end, that my heart would be broken, and that caring too much would eventually cause my downfall. He was right, in a way. I grew bolder since he had left, and decided that I would come closer to your world. And then, I got caught. I know you don't remember this but—"

"Oh, I do," John cuts in.

Sherlock turns his head, surprise written all over his face, before he frowns. "How?"

"I— God, this might sound crazy, but I had a dream. You're right that I didn't remember it happening when I woke up in the morning, I was too hungover."

"Hungover?"

"Er— sick from the drinking. I picked up the scale, thinking that it was some kind of good luck charm that I could keep on me in Afghanistan. A little souvenir from home. But I never remembered what happened during the night until you got at the lighthouse. I guess that seeing you somehow unlocked the memory. I remember now."

Sherlock frowns. "But if you remembered— you knew who I was, before the full moon. Why were you so surprised?"

He sighs at himself, at his stupidity. "It was a dream, Sherlock, I wasn't sure if it was true or not, and even if it were, I guess I wanted it not to be." Seeing that Sherlock is about to interrupt him again, he raises his hand. "That's definitely not your fault. There is nothing wrong with you Sherlock, I messed up, okay? Afraid of caring for a man. Afraid that that man is something else, something I don't understand."

"I remember you," Sherlock whispers, "on that beach. I've come close, a few times before that, but never like this. They used the boy to lure me out of the water, and I thought — I was foolish — I thought he wanted to be my friend. I did not anticipate the risks well enough, and once they got me on that beach in their nets, I knew I was done. I could fight all I wanted, and I did, but they would hurt me with the great metal stick. I remember you, John Watson, on that beach, that night. You were the first to care for me. You were the first to understand me, and you saved my life."

The stars grow big and blurry as John wipes at his eyes with the corner of his shirtsleeve.

"I came back," Sherlock keeps going. "Once you were sleeping on the beach, I came back because the water was reaching your knees and I was sure it would take you in your sleep. I moved you higher, not entirely sure if you'd wake up or not, but you didn't. A few scales of mine were half-ripped already around the wound — I took it and placed it near you, in the hope that you would see it and pick it up."

He stops for a moment, and John thinks about the symbolism of the scale between Ceasg people. Sherlock was somehow, all those years ago, already placing his trust into John.

"You _reeked_ ," Sherlock says, frowning at the memory, and John lets out a wet chuckle.

"That's what drinking does to you."

"I found you again, years after I had given up hope on the fact that you would come back to that beach. Soon after that night, I started working on my nest. I gave up the idea to fraternise with humankind, although it did not mean I couldn't pursue my studies of them. I travelled a lot. Would come back to my nest during summer. The second time I saw you, you were in front of the light, and it was so strong that I wasn't sure if it was really you. I came back a few times, coming closer to the shore than I ever did since I got caught. And well, you know what happened next."

 _You fell in love with me_ , John completes in his head. _You fell for me based on something I did back when I was young and kind and good, and now you're stuck loving the sad shell of a man I've become_. _Except that you don't see that, do you, when you look at me?_

"Sherlock," John finally whispers after a few minutes of silence. "You know the whole _caring is not an advantage_ bit? Let's try to prove him wrong. At least let's try."

Without a word, Sherlock's hand comes in contact with his own, waving their fingers together. _So that we won't drift_ , John remembers, and knows that Sherlock is thinking the same.

 

***

 

Life could not be better. Against all odds, it's working. They're working. John's fears of being discovered slowly transform into a golden secret illuminating the world around him. He feels giddy, constantly, and can only count the hours until the sun will set and he will get the zodiac out of its den and unto the sea. Each night, he visits Sherlock, as they share words, as their caresses grow stronger each minute, until morning light spills into the nest and John has to go back. There is no more doubt hidden in the depths of Sherlock's gaze, as he lets himself be cared for with all the vulnerability that it entails. It's a routine he no longer fears stretching towards the rest of his days.

He forgets about the new moon, and enters the nest to the lovely sight of Sherlock touching himself in the shallow basin. For the first time, John understands now why Sherlock had painted himself the night of their first time, now a good while ago: today, his scales seem to have grown to the side of his body and his face. When John kisses him, his hands feel the roughness of them on the side of Sherlock's cheeks, and that's perfectly fine.

He loves it. He loves being perfectly fine with the world.

"Please," Sherlock murmurs into the kiss, like on that first night, except that there is no fire glowing around them, only the slow rippling reflection of the waves on his face.

That night, John discovers that he absolutely loves it, being on top of Sherlock as he manages to stay above water, ripples lapping at John's calves as he slowly fucks himself on Sherlock's hard cock. He loves it, the feeling of being penetrated but staying in control of it all, watching pleasure wash over Sherlock's features, his hair a dark halo around his pale face and reddened cheeks. He loves it, when he reaches for his own aching cock, letting Sherlock take over, feeling the harsh thrusting of Sherlock inside him and the slickness of the scales under his arse. He loves it when he throws his head forward and comes, watching his ejaculate stripe Sherlock's belly before being washed away in little white clouds, Sherlock clenching underneath him, filling him up from the inside.

He loves it, when he lies down on Sherlock as they drift on the warm water of his nest, feeling Sherlock's fingers running over his scalp, and hears the usual melody being hummed deep where Sherlock's belly comes in contact with his own.

He aches when bidding him goodbye, but loves the feeling that they both know he will be there on the following night. He loves slipping between the sheets, feeling the ghost of Sherlock's lips tingling on his own, his only regret being that the bed is cold and empty and without Sherlock's presence to warm him all over again.

He loves every single bit of it, yet cannot help the little thought at the back of his head that keeps reminding him that it possibly won't last.

On the 13th of August, John wakes up around midday, puts the kettle on and reaches to his old radio to listen to the news.

"—BBC Radio Scotland at one o'clock. This is Clyde Campbell… Good afternoon. Our main news today is most certainly the oil spill that took place this morning, south of the Premier Oil 52 field, west of Hoy, before reaching the north of the country. Authorities are currently on the field, evaluating the damages caused to marine wildlife and flora. Experts believe that they will be able to reduce these damages and clean the water as soon as possible, although they do not advise for fishermen to continue their activities in that sector, and urge the population to use bottled water before they can restore the situation. I am joined by conservation biologist Erika Stuart—"

John drops his mug on the ground before he can register the end of that sentence. He doesn't even hear the fake porcelain shatter on the ground, nor the crunchy sound his shoes make as he walks over the shards.

He flings the door open, dread setting in the pit of his stomach. At the horizon before him, the sea is black.

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> School has started again so I've been a bit behind with this, but this is one big chapter and I hope you will enjoy it.
> 
> /!\ Warning for violence, forced marriage, non-con/a man trying to force himself on a woman (without success) and suicide mention towards the end of the chapter. It's not detailed and in the format of a mythological tale. It appears when Sherlock starts reciting a merfolk tale to John. /!\

" _SHERLOCK!_ "

Down the stairs.

Through the door.

Down the path.

Down the rocks.

Down the beach.

He stumbles on the sand. Right knee left hand right hand left knee. On the same sand. On the same beach, just a bit more up north. Years later. For the same man.

He gets up again, and blinks. It's not an effect of his imagination. All life ruined. A line of black mud contaminating the water in the horizon. The sea, mourning.

He runs down where he has anchored the zodiac in the morning, just after leaving Sherlock when the light was only starting to break through the clouds. From what he's heard on the radio report, the disaster started a few hours ago, which means that maybe Sherlock had a chance to escape, or to see it coming, or to smell it, somehow, it must, because if not for that, it means that he is currently lying at the bottom of a bottomless sea, his nose, lungs and eyes covered and filled with the dark goo that—

" _SHERLOCK!_ "

Where there was the usual sound of waves crashing on the rocks, only silence answers him. John reaches for the ropes, unties the zodiac from the dock and jumps in it. The oil spill has not yet reached his coast, but it will arrive soon, with the tide. He will use whatever he can of clean water to advance quickly, but he's not sure if the zodiac's engines do well in the contaminated areas.

He steers it forward, using the same path as he always does, the one Sherlock showed him all those nights ago. The motor catches as soon as John reaches the border between clean and dirtied water, gargling and protesting. He gets the speed down, and keeps a strong hand on the wheel.

It's bigger than he's ever imagined, and his brain buzzes with the enormity of it. It does not mix well with the water, and from time to time, a spare ray of sunshine catches in the dark plaques and refracts tiny rainbows over the glistening surface. It makes him think about Sherlock's shiny tail. Elegant, yet deadly. His heart squeezes painfully in his chest when he thinks that that comparison will not help him save the man, if anything, he might miss his dark colours in the black of the sea. He can't. He can't pass by Sherlock only to miss him.

John calls his name. No answer ever comes to him. Dread sets further in his chest. He shouts at a bird for it to fly away and not land on the deadly waters, and watches as a few fish float to the surface, their bodies black and their eyes open even in death.

" _SHERLOCK!_ "

For a brief second, John wonders what would happen if he never finds him. It's impossible, of course: Sherlock is somewhere out there, alive and well. He must be. He can't just _die_ when they have only begun this. He can't die when there is so much that John has kept for himself, has never spoken out loud. Sherlock can't die without _knowing_. He can't die, because he does not want to be alone anymore. He can't die, because John needs him. Because the world needs him. Because without him, there would be a hole in the fabric of the universe; mermaids and mermen would not exist, and the sea would only be a vast and endless pit and would stare back at John's face on the days he would lean a bit too much over the top of his tower.

He doesn't know how many minutes, how many hours he's been on this goddamn zodiac when he finally sees a dot between the waves. A head. Shoulders.

" _SHERLOCK!_ " he shouts, and speeds up in that direction, his hands sweaty on the steering wheel.

The vision disappears entirely: he wonders if he hallucinated it, or if it was a random round object already sinking. He stops the engine, worried that he's going to hurt whatever it was if he comes too close. Instead, he whips out the paddle from the trunk on the side of the zodiac, and starts to manually work his way in the right direction.

There it is: Sherlock's face, eyes closed, water lapping at his cheeks and forehead, seconds before sinking underwater. Peaceful. Steady. ( _Is he dead?)_

"Sherlock? Sherlock! It's me! C'mon!"

Sherlock's eyes flash open as John paddles harder and harder. "John? Is that you?"

"Sherlock!" He steadies the boat a metre away, as Sherlock starts to swim towards him, his movements slow as he is trying to keep his shoulders above water. "Get on, quickly!"

John leans over the side, and offers a hand that Sherlock takes, as they both work to hoist him on the zodiac. Finally, Sherlock falls and rolls on the bottom of the boat, his body heavy and dirtied with oil. John scrambles on his knees, pulling the towel he keeps around the seat and gently wipes the counter of Sherlock's face, his hair, his neck.

"John Watson," Sherlock mutters, his heavy eyelids falling shut, droplets of water gathering on his eyelashes. "I knew you'd come for me."

John smiles, his heart fluttering in his chest. "Always, you git. Didn't you recognise me?"

"Not at first. I only heard the boat. I thought — I thought you were someone else. They can't see me, John."

Sherlock faintly turns his head, looking at him, and John rewards him with his best reassuring smile he trained for at med school. "Don't worry, you're safe," he says, truthfully, and pats at his chest, his arms, trying to wipe the most he can with his increasingly useless towel.

When Sherlock's eyes close again, he can't help but wince, understanding how approaching Sherlock in the water nearly caused his demise. Between being discovered by humans and hauled on land like he had been once before, Sherlock would have preferred to sink beneath the contaminated water, and drown.

God, John thinks, tucking the beginning of Sherlock's tail under the towel, he hates every single one of his own kind.

"Was your head at any time underwater during the spill?" he asks.

"No," Sherlock says, his voice low. "I smelled it coming. I tried to swim out of it, but when it caught in my tail it was— harder to do so. I— John, my _nest_ ," he breathes out, and his hands catch on John's arm in a panic.

"All right, all right, don't think about it now, we'll see what we can do later. Rest, for now."

John stares at him, his left hand coming to cover Sherlock's, which are still holding his arm. After a minute, Sherlock progressively relax his grip on him, and lets his hands fall to his side.

"'M not tired," he slurs. Always so contradictory, John thinks with a chuckle, although it's more nervous than amused.

"If you say so. Still, we have a good hour before we reach the lighthouse, you can take a nap if you feel like it." He takes his coat off, even though it's freezing here, in the middle of the sea, but it seems that Sherlock needs it more than he does. He wraps it around Sherlock's chest, who doesn't even open his eyes as he does.

"Don't let them see me, John," Sherlock pleads again.

"I won't."

John sits back behind the steering wheel and starts the motor once again, and drives the zodiac away from the spill. He'll have to take a detour to avoid most of it, but now that he has found Sherlock, he's not working against the clock.

After a moment, he feels the warmth of Sherlock's hand wrapping around his left ankle, the one caught between the seat and Sherlock's heavy tail. It takes a short while, but Sherlock's hand finally goes slack, still curled around John's ankle.

He smiles, watching him from time to time only to make sure that his chest is still going up and down with the regularity of his breaths, and lets himself sigh with relief.

It's true that he does not know what the future holds up for them: it might take weeks before Sherlock can go back to the sea, to his nest, if it's not altogether ruined. Yet for now, he's safe and sound, and John is with him.

Whatever happens, they can face it together.

 

***

 

As soon as the zodiac hits the dock, John springs out of it, runs down to the lighthouse, and takes the first three clean towels he finds in the bathroom. When he gets back, Sherlock is still sleeping, curled up at the bottom of the boat, with, fortunately, no one in sight. John kneels down and finishes cleaning the worst of his tail, although the towel can only take so much. The oil sticks between Sherlock's scales, and John knows that he will have one hell of a job once they make it inside.

The next part is a bit harder. Sherlock still out of it, so he picks him up and rolls him onto the dock, only to be rewarded with a sleepy grunt. He climbs on the wooden planks after him, and knowing that he can't exactly roll Sherlock on the rocky path down to the lighthouse, he bends again, and picks him up, careful to touch his oiled-up tail only through the towels.

Sherlock is way heavier than in his human form, but John doesn't really have a choice. He's not exactly been at the climax of his physical strength since he came back from Afghanistan, but he still manages to slowly walk down the path holding Sherlock up, his fins dragging on the ground.

He kicks the door open, heads to the bathroom, and tries to put Sherlock down in the bath as gently as possibly, although his leg is screaming with pain when he bends his knee.

"Here," he says, out of breath. "Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Sherlock grunts, his head sliding against the wall behind him. The bathtub is not big enough for his tail to fit in its entirety, and so his fins stick to the floor on the other end of the bath, flapping around weakly in what John guesses is a silent _thank you_. John kneels on the floor and opens the taps, and approximating the temperature of the sea out there, lets the water slowly fill the tub.

He fetches more towels along with his toothbrush (it'll be ruined — he'll have to buy some more to finish the job), and kneels down again. Colours are already returning to Sherlock's face. Evidently, the fresh water is helping.

"Hotter," Sherlock mumbles, his hands going for the taps.

"Are you sure? It was pretty cold out there, this morning, I'd thought you like—"

"Not when I'm not swimming. I need hot."

John smiles and adjusts the temperature. After a few seconds, Sherlock slides down in the tub, now comfortably warm, until water covers his shoulders. It's already dirtied black, and so John leans in to open the drain.

"What—" Sherlock protests.

"You can't lie like that in dirty water, Sherlock, we need to wash you first."

John reaches for the showerhead and starts to apply the most intense spray he can get it to Sherlock's tail. The oil is coming off in clumps and goes down the drain.

Invigorated, his cheeks reddened from the hot water, Sherlock's eyes grow big as he looks down at himself.

"I am… I am ruined!" he cries out, hands flying to his hair. "I— I can't—"

"Sherlock—" John begins, and reaches for his shoulder in reassurance, but Sherlock shoves him away.

"I— my _tail_! My nest, John, my nest is _gone_!" He sits up, hiding his face with his forearms, still clutching at his hair, knuckles white, so hard that John worries he might be hurting himself.

"Sherlock, we'll fix this, okay?" John promises. He takes one of Sherlock's wrists in his hand and gently pulls it until he lets go.

"Humans are a plague," Sherlock groans. "My nest, John…" He shakes his head, leaning down against the back of the tub but not looking at John, his pupils dilated and his chest heaving.

Sherlock's nest is the work of a lifetime, he knows, containing all of his studies on humankind, throughout rare objects he spent most of his life searching for and organising. More than that, his nest is his home, the place he built for himself, the place where he can be wholly himself, unafraid of human threat, and yet, humans got their way at the end. John wonders if, from Sherlock's physical panic, he was somehow linked to his nest in an instinctual way John cannot begin to understand.

Clearly close to hyperventilating, John strokes Sherlock's hair, breathing out words and reassurances that does not seem to bring him much comfort.

"Let's get you a cuppa, shall we?" John smiles, invoking the ultimate solution to every single one of Sherlock's troubles.

Sherlock shrugs, crossing his arms over his chest. John gets up and goes to the kitchen, puts the kettle on and checks in the fridge if there's something proper to eat. Not anything Sherlock would be interested in, but he knows that he's got a good deal of frozen fish downstairs and four lobsters he's got from the fisherman down at Bonar Bridge. Would Sherlock like that? He'd have to ask.

Once the water's boiled, he dumps the teabag into a mug, before plucking the bottle of whiskey from the bottom shelf. Sherlock's clearly in shock and it will help him relax. He can't go wrong with a finger or two.

He goes back to the bathroom and hands the mug to Sherlock, who drops the reluctant act and extends his hands towards it.

He sniffs it, and jerks back. "Smells like the blue sink water."

"The _blue_ sink water?"

"The one in the small bottle."

"Sherlock, have you— have you been _drinking_ the mouthwash?"

Sherlock frowns, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows. "It's horrible. How do you do it?"

"Jesus Christ, you have to spit it, not swallow it. Anyway, this might smell like it but it's safe to drink."

Sherlock nods, but doesn't seem entirely convinced. In the end, he runs his lips on the rim of the mug, and tilts it back. _Sluuuuuuurp_. "Disgusting, but warm," he says, cocking his head, before he keeps on drinking.

John shakes his head, smiling. He places a chair at the end of the tub and retrieves a pair of latex gloves and a brush from underneath the sink he sometimes uses to clean the bathroom tiles. He sits down and starts cleaning Sherlock's tail, fins sticking to his knees, stealing glances at Sherlock who is quietly slurping away the concoction, red now high on his cheeks. When he's done with the biggest brush, John reaches for his toothbrush, set aside on the floor.

"Don't!"

John stops, toothbrush in hand. "Why?" They used toothbrushes before.

"It's dirty. You put your _mouth_ on that."

John barks out a laugh. He knows that Sherlock's cleanliness is a big deal for him, but to that point? "And? I put my mouth on _you_ , if you recall, you great idiot." Sherlock tenses up just as John is about to start applying the toothbrush. "Honestly, Sherlock, this toothbrush will not even last the fifth of your tail, by the state of it. I'll have to get some more anyway, so we'll use clean ones to finish the job."

Finally, Sherlock nods, but looks away when John starts cleaning him, as if his pride is hurt by receiving this truly horrifying treatment. The job is long and strenuous, demanding a lot of minutiae, and John knows that he won't be done today. The oil is not getting off easily, and it's probably due because of its chemical components not easily being washed away with water. He won't be able to finish the job today, and will have to go into town tomorrow to see if there's a solvent he can use to make it easier.

Sherlock puts the empty mug down on the floor when John washes once more the dirty water down the drain. "I need to clean up higher," he says. "Can you float? It will be easier."

Tomorrow he'll ask Sherlock to help out, but for now, the man doesn't seem able to do anything and John doesn't mind caring for him a bit. Sherlock nods, and this time, the tub is filled to its full capacity. Sherlock reclines in the water, before his body effortlessly comes up to the surface, making it easier for John to reach with his brush. With a private smile, he remembers how Sherlock wouldn't let him touch his tail, all those nights ago.

" _That's nice_ ," Sherlock slurs, eyes closed, his hair a dark halo around his face.

John smiles. At least Sherlock seems to be a bit more relaxed, still beet red-faced from the hot water, the tea and the alcohol.

"Jooohn," Sherlock says, an eye popping open.

"Mmh?"

"You're gentle."

John chuckles. "And you're drunk." Maybe he shouldn't have given Sherlock any alcohol. For a second, his heart palpitates in his chest. What was he thinking? The man has never drank any before, apart from maybe the mouthwash, his tolerance is non-existent. God, will he be okay?

"No, _you're_ drunk. I'm fine, I'm very, veryyy fine." Sherlock wiggles from side to side in the bathtub in a manner John has not seen before, splashing water around, wetting John's shirt and jeans.

"Hey!" John weakly protests, but Sherlock has sunk a few centimetres under water, before a floppy arm whips out of the tub, his hand grabbing for the side of it, coming back to the surface. "Jesus, you're really drunk."

"Johnjohnjohn, I'm not drunk, you're drunk," Sherlock sing-songs to the tune he usually hums after they mate— _have sex_ , Jesus, he's turning into him, isn't he? "Johnjohnjohn, your hair is so pretty, yellow like a crab."

John snorts. Are crabs even _yellow_? "You're certainly the first to tell me so," he says, but Sherlock doesn't seem to register the words.

He goes on instead, the fins at his hips gayly flapping about in movement to the tune. "Your mouth is so warm, like the inside of a fish."

John jerks his chin back in surprise, actively trying not to laugh at Sherlock's face. "That's quite the serenade. No wonder men jump overboard when they hear merfolk sing." _To hopefully drown the sound of it underwater_ , John wants to adds sarcastically, but doesn't say it out loud. From what Sherlock's been telling him, male Ceasgs do not hunt, and so their voices do not have the effect the female one does. It does seem that singing is an important part of their culture, still, as Sherlock is demonstrating.

"Your eyes are sooo blue, blue like the scintillating waves on a sunny day."

"That's actually kind of sweet," John chuckles. Sherlock seems to black out for a second, his face and body going underwater, and John reaches for him. "Wooh, God, you're not going to drown on me, are you?" Okay, giving him alcohol was definitely not his best idea yet. Sherlock _can't_ drown, but what if he plunges underwater and chokes on his own vomit, somehow?

"Steady," John hushes him, a hand on Sherlock's cheek, guiding the back of his head against the wall. "There, no more singing for tonight. You're going to regret that in the morning, anyway." He drains maybe half the water from the tub, just that Sherlock can lie down in it without floating. It may be less comfortable for him, but John is not taking any chances after everything they already went through.

He stands up, but Sherlock tries to cling to the sleeve of his shirt. "We'll finish cleaning you tomorrow, okay? We've had enough adventures today." Finally, Sherlock lets go, with a vague sound that could be interpreted as an _all right_. He looks moments away from dozing off himself. "I'm going to be in the next room, if you need me, love," John says.

He shuts the light, but leaves the door open.

 

***

 

John bangs the door open and throws the plastic bags unto the table, its content spilling on it.

"John?" Sherlock's voice comes from the bathroom. Then: "You're angry."

"You're bloody good at telling the obvious," he answers, leaning down to pick up the package of toothbrushes. The second one he's bought in the three days Sherlock has been back at the lighthouse. From what he's heard on the radio, and was confirmed in the papers, cleaning the sea could take weeks, and Sherlock has been growing impatient. It's not that John does not like living with him, but it was much easier when Sherlock was in his human form. Now, he can understand his shortness of patience since has not seen anything but the inside of the bathroom for a good while.

It's not the reason why John is angry, no. It's not something he particularly wants to share with Sherlock, as to not scare him off, but he ran into Anderson at the village. He first appeared appeased, as if he had received some good news lately, and John thought that maybe he had dropped the whole act of being paranoid at him. That impression did not last: Anderson followed him around the grocery store, watching from the corner of his eye what would John put in his basket.

John did a good job of ignoring him, but Anderson stepped up to him when he had reached the personal hygiene section, trying to choose the cheapest package of toothbrushes.

"Aha!" Anderson had said, seemingly victorious.

John had looked at him, and sighed. "What do you want?"

"Thought 'e might be dead, with everything that happened out there," Anderson sneered, and John put the toothbrushes in his basket before going down the alley, still trying to ignore Anderson following him. "But you saved him, didn't you? Your little pet?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about. Unless you're still on about your… mermaids and stuff." He never was the best liar, yet he hoped that feigned ignorance would liberate him from the moron who was stalking him. He would have liked very much to punch him, but it would have only confirmed Anderson's suspicions.

Anderson stopped him, grabbing at his wrist, and John had to physically forced himself not to sprain the man's arm in return. Instead, he lets Anderson fish out of his bag the toothbrushes. "See? How much of that do you need for one man? And you bought way more fish than you usually do, Stuart told me that!"

"I see why you would consider people with clean teeth suspicious, Anderson, but lay off the detective thing. Doesn't suit you at all."

He snatched the toothbrushes from Anderson's hand, and made his way towards the cash, and started breathing once again the moment he sat down in the car.

"You've seen the enemy?" Sherlock asks, still from the bathtub, as John comes back to the present moment. It's what he calls Anderson, who apparently, in Sherlock's mind, doesn't deserve a name, only the ominous tag of _the enemy_ , as if they've been waging war for decades.

John leans against the bathroom's doorframe, opening the package of toothbrushes, under Sherlock's vigilant eye. He'll be happy to have new clean ones, as they've been working for three days on his tail, and it's nearly done. (It _is_ done in John opinion, but only Sherlock's counts on that matter.) "Yes, I've seen Anderson."

"What a cunt."

John snorts: he's not entirely accustomed to Sherlock's rather liberal use of curse words, even after all this time. It's normal, he guesses, he too used to know two or three words in French that sounded way more offensive for natives than for himself. "Yes," he nonetheless agrees, "what a cunt."

He fishes out the toothbrushes and passes them on to Sherlock, who starts poking around his tail, looking for places where there still might be a bit of dirt.

John goes around his day, cooking dinner and checking upstairs that everything is fine. It's a clear night, out there, and it's pleasantly warm, for August, with no wind at all. He gets back downstairs still feeling uneasy. He must not overthink Anderson's threats, as the man is a lying sack of shit anyway, but he doesn't have any idea of how right he is. For a moment, John imagines someone finding out that he's been keeping Sherlock in here, that people like him exist in the first place — it would be disastrous for the both of them.

Sherlock doesn't seem so concerned. "BORED!" he shouts from the tub, and John sighs. After spending three days in the same room, he can imagine.

"Do you want me to read?" he asks, entering the bathroom.

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Do you want me to put the radio on? There might be some interesting music."

Sherlock shakes his head.

"Do you want a cuppa? Earl Grey?"

"I don't want tea, John, I want my brain to stop _rotting_. This bathroom is boring. This tub is boring. Everything is boring!"

"Well, what do you want me to do about it?" John shouts, hands open, waiting for a solution on Sherlock's part. He can't go back to the sea. He certainly can't go parading around the village.

Sherlock gapes at him, before crossing his arms over his chest, something he definitely picked up from John. "I want to see the tears."

"The tears?" Does he want for John to _cry_?

"It's summer. It's the time of tears in the sky."

"You mean stars," John corrects him.

"Flying ones, yes."

He frowns. "Shooting stars?"

"Whatever you call them. I want to see."

Ah, he must be talking about the Perseids, then. They could go outside to watch them, John thinks. Nobody ever comes this way, from land or water, and certainly not when the sea is dirtied with oil. The best solution would be to make it upstairs, but Sherlock might not be able to climb all these stairs, and the light might bother stargazing. No, they can go outside.

"All right, but I'm not carrying you outside." His leg is still a bit sore from rescuing Sherlock and carrying him inside from the docks.

" _Please_ ," Sherlock snorts, rolling his eyes as he puts down the toothbrush. He rolls himself out of the tub, splashing water everywhere on the floor, and shakes his head, like a dog just out of water.

John smiles, as Sherlock makes his way into the main room, tugging his body with his arms and somehow, with his own tail, a bit like a seal. He sits down and reaches for the knob to open the door to the outside world, unaware that there's a wet trail behind him on the floor.

"Just a mo', I'll meet you outside," John says.

He mops the floor quickly behind him, before he goes to his bed, taking one of the quilts there. He is about to join Sherlock outside when his belly screams with hunger: he goes to the fridge, but all that's left are two already-boiled lobsters. It's nothing fancy when one lives close to the sea, or _in_ it, he thinks, but it will do. He puts them in a basket, along with the proper utensils, and closes the door behind him with his foot.

Sherlock is already lying down on the other side of the lighthouse, near the rocks but still on the more comfortable grass.

"Here," John says, laying down the quilt, for them to be more comfortable.

Sherlock wiggles on it, smelling at the basket John has just put down. "What's that?"

"Lobster, for you and me."

"What for?" Sherlock is truly adorable when he frowns, John thinks, with the usual wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows.

"To eat, of course."

It doesn't seem to alleviate Sherlock's confusion. "You… _eat_ lobster?"

God, does he hate it? Maybe he thinks it's the most disgusting thing on earth. John rubs at the back of his neck. "Well, yes, don't you?"

Sherlock rolls on his back with a huff. " _Humans_ ," he breathes out for himself. "You're crazy if you think I'll ever get close to something that could rip my fingers off in a snatch. Its exoskeleton is way too hard to get through anyway."

John barks a laugh. "Let me show you, then," he says, sitting down, taking the basket in one hand and reaching for the lobster. Sherlock jerks back, as if afraid of being attacked. It's only a lobster, John thinks. Surely Sherlock has met worse in the sea, with its sharks and whales? "These are dead, of course, and boiled, don't worry."

Sherlock watches, dubious, as John takes out the nutcracker and cracks through one of the lobsters' claws. He picks at it with the tiny fork, and retrieves a good piece of meat, which he passes unto Sherlock.

"Here, try that."

Two taps from his fins: Sherlock accepts it, and carefully munches unto the piece of lobster, before his eyes get bigger.

"Good?" John asks.

"More," Sherlock demands.

He chuckles, and hands him the lobster with the tools. "Here, you can open it yourself. Just be careful not to dirty the quilt." He puts down a few paper towels on the ground, and takes out his own lobster.

They eat in silence for a few minutes, John watching as Sherlock forgets every single rule about manners, going instead for the most brutal and messy lobster-eating John has ever witnessed. Legs and tails get mercilessly cracked, the flesh hungrily sucked out of it without the help of a single instrument. There are bits of orange shell everywhere, one even stuck in Sherlock's hair, as he throws away one of the small legs that is empty of its original content, after a thorough check and a dismayed grunt.

John tries not to laugh, himself abandoning the tools for a more primal approach at eating lobster, one that is, surprisingly enough, a lot more fun than anticipated. He gets messy, bits and pieces falling over his own paper towel as he enjoys the meal, but nothing like Sherlock, whose chin and fingers are shining from the juice of his victim.

When later, Sherlock rolls on top of John, kissing him, he tastes of lobster, warm and buttery. John kisses back, hands already roaming over Sherlock's body, hungry for an intimacy that they have not shared since he rescued him. They're too keyed up to go through anything other than messy handjobs, but even that comes as a great relief.

Once they're done, Sherlock rolls on his back, tucking his head in the crook between John's arm and chest. He points at the sky, and John catches it at the last second: a shooting star.

"Make a wish," he says, his free hand trailing up and down Sherlock's arm.

"Why?"

"Dunno, people say if you make a wish when you see a shooting star, it will become true."

Sherlock hums, wiggling a bit. "You humans have the strangest beliefs. How can tears be related to the accomplishment of one's desires?"

John shrugs, not knowing. "Why do you call them tears?"

"Because they're the Moon's tears," he says, looking up, only to see confusion written over John's face. He sighs. "It's an old story, one that is told to us when we're little. It's about how the world was created."

"Tell me," John asks.

Sherlock shrugs. "If you want to."

He takes a moment to start, but when he does, there is a strange musicality to his tale, as if he has learned it by heart, word for word. It might have been the case, since he just mentioned hearing it as a child, more often than once. John listens, his fingers stilled over Sherlock's shoulder, in total concentration.

"It is said that at the beginning of time, the world was nothing but a vast plain of water. Slowly, as life developed, fish came to populate the water, and humans, navigating on wooden embarkations where they would live and die, feasted on the fish. Life continued in that eternal cycle for a long time, until a young woman was born, promised by her parents to be the love and mate of the ship's captain. She was said to be the most beautiful of the humans, with her hair long and white, and her skin dark as the night, and so the captain wanted her for himself, claiming his superior position as the right to have her, even though she did not love him.

"She did not want to marry the captain, for her love was the Sea, and the Sea loved her back. Every night, she would perch on the front of the ship, and sing her songs to the Sea, knowing that she could never be with her, because she did not know how to swim, and because their love was forbidden.

"Then, came the night when the young human had to promise her life to the captain, but she refused to. He beat her, trying to mate with her against her will, and so she fought back. When she came to understand that this would be her life forever, she jumped off the ship, for if she had to die, it would be in the arms of her love.

"The Sea could not save her: instead, she took her love's bones from the bottom of the ocean and made the Moon out of her, and hung her high in the sky. Every night, as the Moon would shine harder, the Sea would try to rise and rise to meet her. On the 29th day, the Moon understood that it would not be possible for them to join each other, she started to fade away, crying tears into the sky. The tears fell into the water, their fire met with cold water, and from it was born a creature that would be half-human, half-fish, able to breathe both air and water, and never to drown.

"The Sea, furious that she could not even join her love in death, let the creatures hunt down the captain and its ship, gifting our kind with the hatred of humans and the ability to sing like our Mother did. For all the eternity to come, our life is to hunt down humans, who would retreat on Earth, pulling it out progressively each time the Sea would enter her mourning during the black moons. And so, at the end of our lives, the Sea plucks us from the water and hung us up in the sky with the Moon, who would cry again every summer, sending us back on the Earth and into the belly of our mothers. For we must fall, because we are the children of the Moon and the Sea, and such things never change."

John breathes out at Sherlock's last words, savouring the tale on the tip of his tongue. "Do you think that's what happened?"

Sherlock stares at him. "John, don't be an idiot, I know how evolution and gravity work."

 _Yes_ , he wants to say, _I do too, yet I never knew people like you existed before_. Now that he thinks about it, it does make sense. Every culture has its own representation of what he calls mermaids, don't they? It could be a story that has spread across the globe, but Sherlock's presence in his arms makes up for a much simpler explanation. At least, it does explain why Sherlock calls the Sea a _she_.

"There are things…" Sherlock begins, cocking his head to the side, eyes on the sky above him. "Sometimes, the current moves in ways I don't always understand."

John hums, unsure how to answer that. There is another question burning his lips. His hand stills over Sherlock's arm. "Someone told me that there is this… thing, that when a Ceasg falls in— finds a love, but he's— _they're_ human, they get transformed into a human until the next full moon."

Sherlock nods. "Yes, it's an old saying we have. The Sea, being pitiful of loves that cannot be together, transforms the Ceasg into a human. But as she thinks of humans as cruel and selfish, she gives the Ceasg only until the next moon for his love to promise themselves back to them. If they don't, the Ceasg is released and goes back to the water." He crosses his arms over his chest, thumb rubbing at his bare skin. "I thought it was a tale for children, I never thought I— well, you know."

John reaches for Sherlock's chin, tilting his head on the side so that he can kiss him. It's slow and sweet, and tension leaves his body as the air fills with the sound of their lips and tongues meeting. _Do this_ , the voice says in his head. _For once in your life, do the right thing_.

"I— Sherlock, the words. The words I was supposed to say back then," he says, hoping that Sherlock will understand. "I do."

He can't tell them exactly, but he knows that they're there, tucked away in a corner of his chest. He will, one day. He will.

Sherlock turns his head to lean back on John's chest, but a smile spreads across his face. "I do too. It was always you, John Watson."

It's John's turn to smile. They stay there, watching the sky and the sea for a few silent minutes, as they count the shooting stars above their heads, sometimes pointing in the right direction for the other one to see.

It's starting to get cold when Sherlock sniffs the air. "She's getting angry," he says, frowning.

"Why?"

"You've dirtied her with oil, John, of course, she's angry. There's— there's something else too," he adds, and John has no idea how he can tell. He still feels Sherlock's resentment over losing his way of life and his precious nest.

"I'm sorry," John whispers to him. "I know it's tough since you can't go back… we'll figure something out. I'm sure it will only take them a few more weeks to wash everything out." Sherlock scoffs at him, probably thinking about how his nest would be destroyed anyway, and John redoubles. "I promise, Sherlock, we'll leave for goddamn Greece if we need to, but we'll be all right."

"Why Greece?"

"Dunno, it was the first thing that came to my mind. Would be nice to be someplace warm, for a change," he laughs, weakly.

"I believe you," Sherlock smiles. "Let's get you back inside, or you'll be cold. She's getting restless."

John nods.

Over the waves, the wind is rising.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lobster scene is a very small tribute to the What to do when your Flatmate is Homicidal? lobster scene, which makes me cry with laughter every single time I think about it. I just had to. 
> 
> We only have one chapter to go, and then an epilogue! We're nearing the end, friends. :) As always, remember that there's a happy ending coming!


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence, blood, minor character death. If you have any questions, you can pm me on tumblr, twitter or ask me in the comments!
> 
> As always, a million thanks to my wonderful beta Arcwin. <333
> 
> This one is rough, friends, but there's only an epilogue left after this and I promise you that they're happy. :)

 

When John steps out of his parked jeep, a gush of wind tussles his hair. He sniffs at the grey sky, pops his collar up. Sherlock was right: the storm that was coming their way is now currently banging at their door, and he needs provisions if they want to make it through it. From what he's heard on the radio, this is about to become the storm of the decade. He has just been at the clinic, where he rang Mrs Hudson to reassure her, in hushed tones, that everyone is safe after the oil spill, although it's been quite a challenge to keep Sherlock inside the house. The water around the lighthouse has fortunately been spared by contamination, but it stops being the case fairly quickly towards the horizon. Even the specialists on the radio cannot approximate how much longer it will take to make the environment safe again, and even then, John does not know what kind of future holds for Sherlock out there. Sherlock, who is convinced that his nest is entirely destroyed, his collection decimated. Without a place to hide and sleep, he won't be safe on his own in the water until they find an alternative.

It helps, talking to Mrs Hudson, because she listens and understands. John doesn't have to hide anything from her, and that, above all, is a relief. It's a bit like when he used to call to talk with his own Mum, all those years ago, and he never realised that he missed that particular feeling.

He's about to pull the door to the store open when he hears boots grating in the dirt behind him. He turns on his heels, and sighs. The first drop falls from the sky, and lands between his feet with an audible _plop_.

"What do you want, Anderson?"

Anderson bites down on a toothpick, leaning over his own car, something like a poor attempt to impress John. Apart from his calm exterior, John can see the frenzy in his eyes. His gut clenches in his stomach. Something's going on.

"You know what I want, John."

"Yes, mermaids, was it, again? I'm afraid I'm out of stock."

Anderson huffs. "Don't play dumb with me—"

"Ah, is that what you've been doing this whole time? Only _pretending_ to be dumb?"

"—I know he's in the lighthouse. He would be, after that little accident at sea."

He rolls his head on his neck. "Okay, Anderson, that's enough. Go see a therapist or something, you're not making any sense."

"Sherlock," Anderson spits out, drawing the vowels as if the name is too alien sounding for him. "That it again?"

John jerks back, his hand clenching into a fist before he can control himself. Too late, his reaction betrays him, and a smirk spreads across Anderson's face. " _Ah_. Caught in the act. You really shouldn't talk about your little… freak over the phone, John, especially not when walls have ears."

How… Was someone listening to him at the clinic when he called Mrs Hudson? Even when he spoke in vague terms? Fucking Christ, he should have been more careful, he should have—

"Let's make a deal, all right?" Anderson says, tipping his hat back, stepping forward so that his voice is only a whisper. "You give that thing to me, and my boss will pay you a… considerable compensation. You know this that your situation is impossible, that it can only be against nature. You don't need him, do you? This is good money, John, it could make you rich."

John's inside grow cold. Wasn't Anderson trying to get to Sherlock only to revenge his father? What is it now, about money and bosses and _selling_ Sherlock to him?

John sniffs, taking a step forward. "If you ever come as close as touching one hair of his head, I will blow your brains out and feed it to the fish."

"Is that your final answer, then?" Anderson spits, not surprised by John's revelation.

"Go fuck yourself, Anderson."

John goes for his nose, punching him so hard that Anderson falls into the dirt, blood spilling over his lower lip. John grunts and shakes his hand, before he flings open the door to his car. Fuck grocery shopping, he needs to check on Sherlock.

"Yeah, I wouldn't have left him on his own in the first place if I were you," Anderson says, slowly rising on his elbows, as if he could read his thoughts.

"What does that mean?" John shouts, stepping up to him. When Anderson doesn't reply, he kicks him in the stomach, sending him to the ground again. " _What does that mean!_ "

Anderson can only smile, "Hurry, Dr. Watson."

"Jesus fuck," John breathes out, shoving one last kick into the pack of limbs that is Anderson before he climbs into his car.

He could steer the jeep in Anderson's direction and crush him like the detestable insect he is, he thinks in one second of blinding rage. Instead, his sweaty hands turn the wheel towards the road, and his feet push on the accelerator, leaving Anderson far behind him.

His stomach contracts with fear. Has Anderson sent someone when he saw John coming in the village, or was it only a meaningless threat? God, why didn't he give a phone to Sherlock, and kept one on himself at all times? He has no way of knowing if Sherlock is safe, and if something happened to him—

"Jesus buggering fuck," he mutters under his breath, steadying the car as it flies over the hills. It takes him usually half an hour to get to the lighthouse, but if Sherlock is in danger…

John's mind goes utterly blank as he sits up straighter on his seat, pushing the wipers one speed up as the windshield becomes blurry from the rain. He watches the horizon, sighing of relief as the tower of the lighthouse appears in front of him. He pushes the accelerator, nearly going off the road in a curve, and kicks the brakes when he arrives at the place he usually parks.

The second he steps outside the wind shoves the car door back shut, rain now accumulating in small streams of water going down the sandy road. The sea is high and angry, waves ramming into the rocks and against one side of the lighthouse. John's breath sticks down in his throat: he's never seen it before, but if the water gets any higher, it might completely spill onto land. He focuses on the tower until he distinguishes a van waiting in the shadows. The door to the lighthouse is swinging forth and back from the wind.

He swallows, sweat running back his neck. He opens the back door and takes the first thing he sees that could serve as a potential weapon: a tire lever.

He doesn't remember how he made it so quickly down the path, but he's going through the door, entering his house.

It's utterly quiet inside. John wants to shout Sherlock's name, in order to be sure that he's all right, but it catches in his throat: if they're not alone, he'd rather have the element of surprise with him. God, he wished he had his gun on him, right now, but it's upstairs, safely tucked away between two bricks. He'll have to do with the lever.

Slowly, he progresses forward until his back is flat against the wall, near the bathroom. The half-opened door makes it impossible to see inside. There's a noise. Something dripping. Not rain.

With one hand, he pushes the door open, and steps inside the bathroom, brandishing the lever over his head.

A small stream of blood is disturbed in its course by the sole of John's shoe. A harpoon, lying on the floor, shards sticking out from where it's broken in half. A face he nearly recognises, its eyes dark, gills opens and flared.

He blinks again, concentrating himself on seeing the whole picture. Sherlock is on the floor on his arms, over the bloodied body of a man, his hands and mouth reddened — he is hissing at John, every single muscle in his body contracted, his scales spiked up.

John backs off. "Sherlock! It's me!"

Sherlock tugs himself forward, still hissing, making John's back hit the door. Is he out of his mind? Will he attack him? God, he doesn't want to hurt him, but if— stop it, he thinks. He lowers the lever, and looks in Sherlock's eyes.

"Sherlock, it's me, it's John," he says. The lever falls from his fingers as he comes forward, and Sherlock jerks back at the clinking sound it makes once it hits the tiles. "Sherlock, I won't hurt you. It's me."

"John?" Sherlock finally says, still panting, his pupils slowly regressing to their normal size.

"Yes, it's me— Jesus, are you all right?"

He steps in the pool of blood, and he slowly leans down, taking a look at the man's face and his glassy eyes. His neck is broken, blood coming from his mouth and the few wounds he has over his body.

John reaches for Sherlock. "Are you hurt?" he asks. "Did he hurt you?"

"I—" Sherlock mumbles. "Are you angry?" A second ago Sherlock was fierce and ready to kill again, but now he looks like a guilty child.

"Angry? No, of course, I'm not angry, Jesus Christ, he was about to—"

"Good," Sherlock cuts him off, "I don't want to make John Watson angry." He looks down on his hand holding his side, blood slipping through his fingers in a steady flow. On that, his eyes roll backwards in his sockets, and his body goes slack, and before John can do anything, his head hits the ground.

"Sher—" John shouts, reaching for him and he turns him on his back. He should have seen the wound earlier on. He should have understood sooner that Sherlock was wounded. His throat closes on itself. Sherlock lost precious seconds of consciousness only to confirm that John wasn't angry at him _defending his own life_.

John kicks his coat off, folds it into a ball and presses it to Sherlock's side. Not now. He can't think now. He only needs to save a life.

With his foot, he bangs open the drawer under the sink, where he keeps his medical kit. Abandoning his coat over Sherlock's abdomen, his hands fly into the kit, opening it as he pulls out of it everything he needs to clean and suture the wound.

Everything goes quiet. He knows exactly which step to take in a precise and fast choreography, hushing the voice at the back of his head telling him that he doesn't have any time to waste before the hunter's backup arrives. He doubts that Anderson will not be far behind.

He'd rather die, shot in his back as he's trying to save Sherlock, than abandon him there. Just like that, the world stops turning. The wind dies down. Pale and sleeping, the man in his arms looks just like the man on the beach, that day.

He sucks a breath in, returning to the task at hand. His gloved fingers are flying over Sherlock's wound as he sutures him up, before plastering a bandage on top. Just as he's checking if everything is in order, Sherlock's eyes slowly open up, one of his hands clenching over John's shirt, smearing blood everywhere.

"I can… smell more," he mutters, before his hand goes slack again.

John's stomach contracts on itself. They're coming.

The distant sound of tires screaming against the rocky path comes his way, over the rain and the wind outside. He runs out of the room and to the window: four men are approaching the lighthouse, their silhouettes distinctively holding harpoons, and one of them — worse — a gun.

He runs back up to the bathroom, thinking fast. They don't have the time to escape now, as the men are between the lighthouse and his car. The only solution is going upstairs, where his gun is — the only way he can defend them now.

John leans down, passing his arms under Sherlock's chest and his tail, lifting him up. It's slightly easier than usual, the adrenaline giving him impossible strength and a rush of energy. He doesn't think about how his leg will be killing him in the morning. He doesn't think about the next morning at all. He looks at the flight of narrow stairs turning over his head, and breathes in.

He lifts his good leg, and takes one step.

It's complicated and slow, Sherlock being big, the end of his tail trailing behind, smacking against the wall and smearing blood everywhere. John finds the stairs hard enough to climb on any normal day, now with the added weight of Sherlock's body, his leg screams with pain every step he takes.

The usual three minutes it takes him to climb upstairs feel like years this time, yet he soldiers on. Will he hear the door creaking downstairs first, or will it directly be the cold barrel of a gun between his shoulder blades? He speeds up when he feels Sherlock slightly shifting in his arms, his fins flapping around his calves, as if trying to grab for purchase.

"John—"

"Hang on," he says, gritting his teeth, not looking down at Sherlock's face, afraid that he won't be able to move anymore, or worse, that he will lose balance and topple backwards.

He finally sees it, the literal light at the end of the tunnel, strong against the night sky, and breathes out. He's at the height where he can reach between the bricks for his gun, but he needs both hands to hold Sherlock. He'll have to leave him upstairs and go back for it later.

It's at that moment that he hears the door being flung opening downstairs.

"Search the room," Anderson's voice echoes down the tower.

John finally steps on the second floor, realising that he climbed more quickly than he thought he did, considering the distance that was between the men and the lighthouse when he first saw them.

"Stay here," he says, putting down Sherlock on the other side of the lamp, the one that faces the vast horizon. In any case, Sherlock doesn't seem to be able to move a lot on his own. He only nods, his face pale from the lack of blood, and John backs up to the stairs. He carefully steps down a few of them, before he reaches the exact brick, and retrieves his gun.

At this point, he could wait for them to come up and ambush them, but using his gun in the staircase wouldn't serve him well: the bullet could hit anywhere and change directions. Maybe he could use the brick and throw it at them as they come up, but that would be giving away the element of surprise. No, the best alternative is to wait on top, gun in hand.

"Leave him, he's dead. See what this _thing_ can do? We can't let it roam around," he hears the echo of Anderson's voice, as his acolytes step out of the bathroom after a gruesome discovery. John grits his teeth. It was self-defense, he reasons with himself. The man was about to bloody harpoon Sherlock, not even kill him — from what he's got from Anderson before, he doesn't want Sherlock dead anymore. He only wants to capture him. And that, above all, seems _worse_ than death.

John steps back on the second floor and goes to Sherlock. He's sitting up against the fence that separates him from the abyss, and the sea, a good few metres down. When John looks down, he can see that his prior statement wasn't wrong: the water is reaching the land, entirely submerging the rocks between the sea and the house. The first floor is bound to get flooded soon.

Sherlock's hair is swept by the wind, bandage already wet from the rain. "John... I'm sorry—" he lets out, hands going forward, fisting themselves into John's shirt when he kneels at his side.

"Hush, it's fine. Not your fault. You need to stay quiet, okay? And if they fire, you have to lie down on the ground."

"I don't want— I don't want to go with them."

"Look at me, Sherlock," John says, positioning his face in front of Sherlock's, one hand on his cheek. "I won't let them."

"I'd rather die."

"Nobody is going to die," John promises him.

"Not if you're smart about it," a voice says in his back. Anderson. Sherlock pupils dilate again, every single scale of his body spiking up in a shiver. That much for the element of surprise, John chastises himself. "Now, Watson, do stand up and drop the gun."

John stands up slowly, turning on his heels to face Anderson, who is holding up a gun, his silhouette lighted every few seconds by the enormous light behind him. "I said: _drop the gun_." He waves his own, and John believes that he's stupid enough to fire, and so he bends his knees and lets his own gun fall to the floor. The light shines in his eyes once more, blinding him.

"All right," he says. "What do you want?"

"You know what I want," Anderson replies, waving his gun at Sherlock. John steps a millimetre on the side, in front of Sherlock.

"Yeah, we've already established that you're leaving him alone."

"Certainly not. I'm to bring him to my boss. Be smart about this," Anderson repeats, "and no one will get hurt. My boss only wants to understand _them_. If that's any consolation, he won't get hurt, either."

"You know what?" John says with a forceful smile, his face showing under the light before it goes black again. "I don't believe you." Clearly, the dead man lying downstairs had another definition of bringing him without hurting him. And John can't tolerate the idea of Sherlock being treated as a guinea pig — of anyone being treated like so.

This time, it's Sherlock who speaks out. "Who's your boss, and what does he want to do with my kind?"

Anderson sneers at him, but is visibly bothered, and if John is not wrong, he catches a glimpse of fear in his eyes. "Scientific discovery," he says, but not looking at Sherlock, as if he can't bring himself to speak to that _monster_. "He promised me money and vengeance," Anderson adds, craziness flowing in his face as he stops pretending that he doesn't actively want to make Sherlock suffer. "And one does not simply deceive Moriarty."

"Well, as I have said, I'd rather die."

When the light turns again, covering them in total darkness, everything happens in a manner of seconds. From the corner of his eyes, John can see movement, and he understands that Sherlock is going for the gun on the floor, where he had dropped it. There's a split second where he wonders if Sherlock even knows how to use it, but the gun detonates before he can do anything about it. Then, the sound of broken glass: instead of shooting at Anderson, Sherlock has shot the lamp behind him, plunging them in a long-lasting darkness.

John is nearly entirely blinded, but it must be easier for Sherlock, who can see well in the dark.

"What the—" Anderson starts, and then there's another gunshot sound, this time coming from him. It flies past a good meter on John's left.

Before John can do anything about anything, he feels Sherlock's hand on him, as he has hoisted himself up with one arm against the fence. John feels the cold barrel of the gun and takes it from him. Another shot flies near John's ear, but misses again.

"Sherlock!" he breathes out, "lie down!"

"No, John, I—"

"Listen to me, lie down!" They only have a few more second before Anderson will acclimatise to the darkness, and this time, he won't miss.

"I'm sorry, you'll be safe, now" Sherlock whispers, as his other hand leaves John's arm. Before he can say, or do, anything, Sherlock looks back at him one more time. "Goodbye, John," he says, and flings himself over the tower's fence.

Everything grows quiet and loud at the same time.

" _SHERLOCK!_ " The fence hits John in his chest as he leans over it, hands extended towards the sea, where Sherlock's body is only a dot where it disappears between the high waves and the dangerous rocks. " _SHERLOCK!_ "

Another bullet nearly grazes his ear, as he vaguely registers Anderson screaming something too. He has no idea if Sherlock made it safely to the water — if the height was too big for him, if he was killed upon the impact or broken his neck either on a rock or the bottom of the ocean.

He turns, raising the gun he now remembers he has, pointing it at Anderson's angry face. "You—" he starts, as he takes a step forward.

The world explodes before he can fire. It explodes at the very centre of his shoulder, pain radiating through his whole body. He stumbles and pulls the trigger of his own gun, his vision blank and ears buzzing so much that he has no idea if he's missed or not. He lets go of the gun in favour of holding his shoulder, screaming, waiting for the second bullet to come and finish the job. To be done with the pain. With the suffering. To just be bloody done.

The bullet never comes.

Instead, just about when his brain is about to shut down, a very simple question paralyses his mind: _forwards or backwards_?

He chooses backwards.

It seems like he's falling forever when his body finally hits the water, another shock of sizzling pain rippling through his body, and he wants to scream, except that water fills his nose, his mouth, his lungs. His body jerks, instinctually trying to move just as his Mum told him, all those years ago, that first day he swallowed a cup full of salty seawater.

Except that now, the hands that hold him are not his mother's. Broader. Stronger. Softer.

He breathes again and air fills his lungs as his head suddenly erupts from underwater. A wave hits him in the face, but the second one never comes, blocked by the body leaning over him.

"Sher—"

"John, don't—" Sherlock breathes out. "You're hurt. I— you're hurt."

For all the pain, John can't help but smile. Sherlock's face, even though constricted with fear and pain, is leaning above him, and it's a reassuring sight. If he had to go, he'd choose to be in his arms, anyway.

"Tell me how to help you," Sherlock says, dodging another wave, his other hand coming under John's knees, holding him up, staring at a point on his shoulder John doesn't even feel anymore.

"Sherlock—" John says, smiling.

"No, John, tell me _how to help you_ ," he insists, distraught. "Stop being an idiot and tell me how to help you!"

"Sherlock, there's really nothing that…" Droplets of rain fall on his face. Even though the storm still rages, everything is still and calm around them. "Keep the… necklace, will you?" he adds, his good hand going to his chest.

Sherlock nods, his face ridden with tears. "John— I— I'm sorry for the hurt that I've caused you."

"Sherlock, don't—"

"It's my fault. It's my fault, he's right, when he says that I'm— he's _right_ —"

John smiles. He's being an idiot again. "Shut up, you git. There were… times I didn't even… believe you were… human, but let me tell you— no, _let_ me tell you that you're the best… man, the most human… human being that I've ever known."

"John—"

John feels himself shifting, Sherlock holding him now in a tight hug, one hand behind his neck, the other one in his back.

"No, Sherlock, let me say— I love you," he mumbles, and it's so easy to say, just as easy as letting his head rest on Sherlock's shoulder, just as easy as letting his eyes fall shut. "I love you, okay?"

"I love you too, John."

As easy as smiling in the crook of Sherlock's neck. As easy as not feeling the pain, anymore. As easy as letting go of everything.

The waves crashing on the rocks are suddenly very distant. Every single sound is far away, and even the heat from Sherlock's body is slowly going away. He vaguely registers drops of water running down his cheeks and neck — not from the rain this time.

The soft glow of the full moon above them.

Sherlock's ragged breathing and pained sobs.

His words. "Please, let him _live_!" Anger and desperation. "Please, please, _please, please_ , just... let him live!"

 

She does.

 

 


	13. Chapter 13

 

**Greece, one year later**

 

John walks down the usual sandy path down to the quarry, the setting sun shining on the back of his tanned neck. He pushes a few bushes, takes a turn after the biggest tree down the path, and zig-zags around boulders until his feet touch sand. He leans forward and takes off his shoes, the soft and warm sand running between his toes. He sighs, a smile on his face, remembering both the good news he's bringing and the one person he's going to see in just a few moments.

There's a breach in the rocks that only a trained eye can see — or someone who knows that it's there. They took ages to find the perfect spot, but once that was done, it quickly became home. Safe, and tucked away from the world and both their kinds.

He slips between the rocks, shoes in one hand, before he lets them drop to the ground, eyes taken by the man rolling around in the sand a few metres away, his tail flapping about in the first few centimetres of water of the little lagoon. He reminds John of a slightly impatient cat.

"Hello, love," he greets him, and instantly, Sherlock rolls on his front and tugs himself towards John, who sits down.

Sherlock comes between his legs, pressing his body to John's. He seizes the back of his neck with both hands, and greets him with a fierce kiss.

"Hmm— someone has missed me."

"Always, John Watson, always," Sherlock breathes out, kissing him again, their teeth clinking against each other as they both grin quite stupidly.

It's only been two days, John thinks, but every single second he doesn't spend with Sherlock is wasted time for him.

"It's the full moon, tonight," Sherlock says, licking his salt-chapped lips, his eyes intense on John.

"It is." John can't help but smile, tucking away a wet curl behind Sherlock's ear. He is about to kiss him again when he sniffs something in the air. Or rather, _someone_. "Was there… someone here?"

"Oh," Sherlock says with a shrug. "Yesterday. An Undine. I don't know how she found her way in."

"Are you hurt?" John lets go of Sherlock and backs up a bit to have a good look at him. Apart from the two scars, one on the right side of his tail and the other over his appendix, he seems entirely healthy and fine. Eternally pale, but that's Sherlock, not able to tan a bit even under the Mediterranean sun.

"No, don't worry. For all their moods, Undines are definitely less persistent than Ceasgs."

John chuckles. "Well, you know what they say about the Greek…"

Sherlock rolls his eyes, and John kisses him again, on the side of his nose. They have met a handful of Undines on their trip, and although they're colourful creatures, they can be a bit moody. They live differently than Ceasgs, though, and apparently, males living together isn't a rare occurrence in their culture. The Undine that found their nest must have known that it was a lost cause right away, and this time, Sherlock did not have to fight.

It was definitely an eye-opening experience, understanding that what John calls mermaids are in fact a collectivity of different cultures. They saw a few of them during the months it took them to find their way from Scotland to Greece, and every single meeting left a lasting impression in John's mind. One of the most memorable moments was when they took a detour near Normandy, avoiding the most travelled paths by ships and submarines, only to meet a group of shark-like merfolk.

There were four of them, a female with three males, their skin so pale and their long, white hair trailing behind them in huge, puffy clouds. They were swimming slowly, their grey tails, paler on their underbellies, going left and right in languorous motions, as if they could not be bothered by anything at all. The female, bigger than the rest of them, was holding the hand of another male. The third one was old, his hair longer and his skin sagged, but he looked fierce and wise at the same time. The last one, closing the march, seemed to be the youngest, although an adult. As they swam by them, he was the only one to turn his head and acknowledge their presence by blowing a single, large bubble in Sherlock's direction, who had nearly swooned on the spot, colour high on his cheeks. John later learned that such a thing was the equivalent of a wink in merfolk's body language. Well, he definitely did not need to have his Sherlock stolen to some kind of shark-like Adonis, thank you very much.

Their second encounter with mermaids was much more down south, on the coasts of Egypt, when John had fallen ill from his half-healed wound at the shoulder. It had been infected by some sort of bacteria in the water, and so they had to seek refuge amongst a colony of Thessalys — Egyptian mermaids, with dark skin and curves that John never thought mermaids could have, their tails green and crocodile-like. If at first they were rather keen on chasing them away, as Sherlock had been carrying a mostly unconscious John, they revealed themselves to be extraordinarily peaceful when they understood that they were a couple, and therefore harmless for their all-female community. John had loved his time with the Thessalys, as their days mostly consisted of small talk and sunbathing for hours on warm rocks, an activity that Sherlock particularly despised, staying in his little corner of the river, batting his tail at the little girls who would laugh at him. John grew particularly fond of the one that was healing him, Azisha, who knew a lot about plants and concoctions John had never heard of before. She taught him a few of these when he was strong enough to concentrate on simple tasks. Sherlock, in turn, grumpy and impatient, was endlessly teased by the little ones and the not-so-little, trying to remain in their good graces as long as it took for John to heal, which ended up with him joining their braiding circles, to John's absolute delight. They stayed there for nearly a month, until John recovered and Sherlock decided that they had overstayed their welcome. As much as it was true, John did promise to visit them back again sometime, and to bring Sherlock along too.

It took them awhile to find the perfect spot in Greece, just when the winter was about to set in. They somehow stumbled onto that little lagoon, hidden away from the rest of the world, and further exploring lead them to the breach in the rocks that marked the entrance of a small cave. It is about the proportions of Sherlock's nest, and so they decided that they would stay there. Knowing that Sherlock still wasn't over the destruction of his own nest, it was a relief to John to see that building this one together lifted his mood. When they finished personalising it with both human and marine decorations, Sherlock had admitted that he liked it even better than his old one.

As if followed all around the world by incredible luck, John had found an old house for sale on the island, not far from the local village. It took a few weeks of renovations to transform it into something they could live in, but after spending months in a lighthouse, John hadn't shied away from a bit of handwork.

Now, the cottage is cozily furnished and does come with a few interesting findings. About that:

"I have good news," John breathes out, between two kisses.

"Hhmmm?" Sherlock is clearly more concentrated on what John's mouth can do rather than the words it is producing.

"You know the bust we found? The one that looked either Greek or Roman? Well, it's a real one. Molly dated it back to the Hellenistic period, she's pretty sure it's Greek." At Molly's mention, Sherlock had rolled his eyes. John chuckles. "She's not that bad, Sherlock."

"She's the enemy," Sherlock says, always so loose with the term. Along with the few people back in Scotland they do not mention anymore, the enemy category consists of the local fisherman, who made the mistake of not accepting anything but money from Sherlock as payment for lobster ( _"No, Sherlock, you can't pay him with that shiny rock."_ ), and Molly, who had greeted John for the first time with a kiss on his cheek. If that fatal mistake had plunged Sherlock in a deep jealousy, he had remained entirely oblivious to the fact that Molly had actually been flirting with _him_. Confronted with makeup for the first time, Sherlock had pointed out how Molly's lips looked strangely red, only to say that it was better before when she came back not wearing any. John had elbowed him, and made him apologise.

"She's excellent at her job," John points out, his hands rubbing Sherlock's sides. He reaches down a bit, grating at the scales, making them turn midnight black. "And she's already in contact with the Archeological Museum of Olympia, they want to have a look at it. If you're still all right with donating?"

Sherlock looks over John's head, where the Moon is slowly rising in the sky, although the sun isn't completely down yet. He reaches for the hem of John's tee-shirt and tugs it up. John helps him get it over his head.

"Of course it is. There are only so many stone humans we can keep around our homes."

That's truly Sherlock, John thinks, preferring broken phones, interestingly shaped stones and a few skulls over pieces of art that are hundreds of years old. To be fair, John isn't particularly a fan of them either. He stumbled on something a few nights ago as he was crossing the house in total darkness, and for an instant thought that some serial killer had deposited a human limb in his living room before he understood that it was a sculpted arm.

They love it, though, their life, between the two worlds. It's their shared secret, and even if John would never admit it to him, Sherlock experiencing the human world for the first time is the sweetest thing he could ever have witnessed. Only last week he had gasped and pointed to the sky. "Look, John, a ghost!" John had to explain to him that the random inanimate floating object was neither a ghost nor an ovni, but a helium balloon. Every new thing is a source of incredible curiosity for Sherlock: during his first few weeks at the house, he had stumbled upon the dictionary and asked John, "Why is this story not making any sense?" — "Oh, that's a dictionary. It's not a story, it's an alphabetised classification of all the words." — " _All_ the words?" Sherlock had asked with growing excitement. "Well, not all the words, but a great deal of them." And on that, between the bloody _Iliad_ and _The Divine Comedy_ , Sherlock had taken on the dictionary as his bedtime reading. For a few days at the time, his vocabulary would consist of his usual lovely stumbling English, with the addition of precise words sprinkled around, which made it, for quite obvious reasons, really easy to follow his progress. When John had asked him why he preferred the dictionary over a good story, Sherlock said that he "needn't be _distraught_ nor _disdainful_ , John, if I learn all the words, I will therefore learn all the stories at once." Somehow, John thought, that made sense.

Sherlock plants a kiss on John's shoulder blade, bringing him back to the present moment. "All right. We'll tell Mrs H to forward her the message should she finish working on it before next Moon. The museum will be happy," he adds, remembering all the _thank you_ cards they've received from a few places, down to the Pergamon bloody Museum for a piece of wall they had found buried deep in the waters.

"Mrs Hudson is watching over the shop this time?" Sherlock asks. "Did you remind her that—"

"The clock needs to be adjusted once every week, and the tea pots need to be dusted with a cloth and no water, yes, I told her."

The shop is a little rented front in the village where they keep the stuff that can't make it to their homes. It's small and cramped, with a room at the back where Molly works on the most fragile pieces, those that might interest museums. Between Molly the archeologist, and Mrs Hudson the caretaker, they've been utterly blessed.

John had phoned Mrs Hudson just as they had made it to Greece. She had heard about the shooting at the lighthouse, and like everybody else, presumed John to be dead. She was quite happy to find out that he was in fact living his best life in Greece, with Sherlock, and when he asked her if she might want to move to kinder weather, she had agreed on the spot.

Sherlock adores her. When they met for the first time, Mrs Hudson had not moved an inch, only nodded slowly, and Sherlock silently replied in the same way. John remembers how she had been his confidant, all those months ago, and how much she still likes him, but it's nothing compared with the motherly way she treats Sherlock, sometimes even as if he was a lost son she could have had with Eileen. In turn, Sherlock is very protective of her, even through his sulks and what he makes her endure. It's a relief having her around, really, watching over the shop and living in an annexe of their house, dusting the shelves in the months that they're gone from the world, and making sure that Sherlock is kept well fed when he transforms back, always a few days before John.

"Did I tell you that tourists came specifically to the island to have a look at the shop, this week?"

Sherlock frowns. "Why would they?"

"Apparently, someone rated it on Internet, and it got popular amongst Greek and Roman history amateurs. People are travelling for the things we find," he adds, and places a kiss on Sherlock's nose.

From time to time, they sell an item, even though their most valuable things are donated to museums, Sherlock not caring a bit about money. They live a simple life, but it's comfortable enough with what they get from John's savings, the shop, and sometimes, museum compensations.

Sherlock nuzzles in John's neck, his precise fingers already working the zipper of his jeans in quick motion. John scrambles away from Sherlock to tug both his trousers and his pants down, taking off his socks at the same time. Naked but for the pendant around his neck, he touches the shiny blue scale that is dangling on his sternum, but doesn't remove it. It wouldn't be attached to his body, not after all this time, yet every time John swims, the necklace unmistakably stays in place and doesn't fly off over his head like he was afraid it would.

Sherlock's eyes roam over John's body, who jokingly shoves him away. "Later," he says. "We don't have enough time." He lifts his head. The sun has now disappeared on the other side of the rocks forming the creek.

"Come on, then," Sherlock says, and starts tugging himself towards the lagoon.

John stands up and follows him until his feet touch the warm water. He sits down again, hands running through the sand, waiting. Sherlock rolls around him, getting his tail and body wet, his hair full of sand. His fins are impatiently flapping around in the water, droplets landing on John's skin.

From the first time it happened, when the transformation had saved his life from the bullet in his shoulder, to now, a year later, the same ritual doesn't feel any less peculiar.

Moonlight breaches through the rocks. "Ah, there," John says, looking at his toes as his feet slowly grow longer and longer.

Sherlock watches, curious as ever even though it had been his turn only three days ago.

Once his breathing comes back to normal, John rolls on his front and joins Sherlock in the water, their tails instinctively tangling together, dark green on dark blue. John opens his mouth just as Sherlock's lips are on him, puffing a cloud of oxygen into John's lungs, helping him calm down enough for his second and unused respiratory system to take over. John smiles under Sherlock's lips, his eyes closed, remembering the man on the beach that day, the drowned man he had to breathe for. Golden spots grow over his tail, the fins at his hips glueing themselves to Sherlock's. His fingers trail over Sherlock's body, stopping over the single green scale that has been embedded just where his scar begins.

"Where to?" he asks.

Sherlock hesitates, looking up towards the night sky. "Summer is nearly over."

"As if that has ever stopped you," John points out.

Sherlock laughs, bubbles seeping from his lips and nose. He kisses John once more. "The nest, then, for now. And after, wherever you want."  

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promised an unambiguous happy ending and here we are! Thank you for those who have followed along, especially to the fantastic people that took time to leave comments on every chapter! You are a great motivating force, and I hope that you enjoyed this story. For those who are discovering it for the first time, thank you for the kudos and comments you left as well!
> 
> Finally, enormous thanks to the most amazing beta Arcwin, who not only saved me from preposition disasters, but who did wonderful artwork for this fic! Check out [her fics](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arcwin/pseuds/Arcwin), she is an amazing writer as well! <33333
> 
> You can find me on tumblr at weneedtotalkaboutsherlock, and on twitter at @wntt_aboutSH!


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